


Strange Situation

by pink_freud07



Series: CEE [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Birth, Boypussy, Cockwarming, Consensual Somnophilia, Freddie is basically Gossip Girl, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Mentions of Abortion, Mpreg, No murder, Omega Will Graham, Porn With Facts, Power Bottom Will Graham, Praise Kink (?), Pregnancy Kink, Secret pregnancy, Talks of Terminal Cancer/Illness (Bella), Teacher-Student Relationship, Therapy and Research Nerding, Will Has a Vagina, labor, mental health stigma, mentions of grief, references to suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 92,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_freud07/pseuds/pink_freud07
Summary: Will Graham is a fish out of water, sprung straight from the Bayou, the first in his family to go to college. His dad hadn’t understood why he wanted to go and why he would bother with a degree. He’d wanted Will to stay in Louisiana and work on diesel engines with him; no need to go anywhere or spend any money for that. Will might have actually been enticed by the simplicity and ease of it all if the offer hadn’t come with an unsaid, but palpable until you’re mated and won’t work anymore. It was a sentiment that acutely reminded him that he needed to get out, get away. He needed to go somewhere else where he might be able to be more than just an Omega someday.Posters line the walls. Dr. Lecter’s name, of course, makes many appearances, usually one or two places behind the names of Master’s and Doctorate students and their post-nominal letters. This presumably means that these are poster presentations from a plethora of conferences, signals of how students have succeeded under Dr. Lecter’s watch.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: CEE [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088015
Comments: 109
Kudos: 496
Collections: Favorite





	1. Chapter 1

The afternoon sun beats down on him mercilessly. He can feel the sweat start to dampen his hair and patches of his shirt. With shaky hands, he pushes his glasses back up from where they’ve slid in the sheen of sweat down his nose. In the same motion, he swipes his hair away from in front of his eyes. The humidity is only an echo of what he is used to, but the air chokes at his lungs. His bag hits against his side with his steady stride as he scans the buildings and street signs in search of the right direction. His mind scrambles to remember if he is meant to turn left or right here – or maybe the next block or perhaps it was supposed to be one block back. A sense of urgency burns at his nerves but he squashes down the urge to run – he can’t be _that_ first year running lost across campus flip-flopping and gasping for breath.

As much as he wants not to appear like it’s as true as it is, Will Graham is a fish out of water. He’s sprung straight from the Bayou, the first in his family to go to college. His dad hadn’t understood why he wanted to go and why he would bother with a degree. He’d wanted Will to stay in Louisiana and work on diesel engines with him. No need to go anywhere or spend any money for that. Will might have actually been enticed by the simplicity and ease of it all if the offer hadn’t come with an unsaid, but palpable _until you’re mated and won’t work anymore_. It was a sentiment that acutely reminded him that he needed to get out, get away. He needed to go somewhere else where he might be able to be more than just _that Omega_ someday. Sometimes he imagines maybe that was what had driven his mother away too, though he’d never know.

In his hunt for the right building, Will is grateful not for the first time that his scholarship program had required him to come to campus a month before Fall semester officially started. It had been appealing from the beginning: allowing him to leave sooner, start over sooner. Currently, he is particularly grateful to avoid the congestion of the full student body. In his rush, he can only benefit from the sparseness of students on the sidewalk. It allows him to weave through them fairly deftly with minimal floundering until he finally grasps the heavy metal handle of the Clinical Psychology building’s front door.

He winces at the squeak of his soles of his cheap shoes on the waxed linoleum floor, each sound seeming to announce that he is not where he is meant to be. Each smaller squeak seems to culminate in one larger creak as he pushes open the heavy door that represented his final hurdle. As is naturally his luck, everyone in the meeting together turns around to look at him pulling attention from his new primary investigator, despite clearly having been in the middle of something important. A hushed silence ensues and, when Will makes eye contact with his brand new PI, the pause is weightier still. After he has been punished enough with scrutiny and silence, Will is simply, but firmly asked to stay behind and the meeting is resumed as if nothing of interest had occurred at all.

When the meeting ultimately concludes, Will waits apprehensively. He shifts on his feet and wrings his hands together. He indulges these fidgets, but suppresses the urge to wrinkle his nose or hide away in the collar of his shirt. He leaves himself no choice but to take note of the layers of scent that permeate the air – the hazy, muddied scent of confusion, the sharp bite of irritation, an underlying collective cool, brisk scent.

These layers are suddenly blanketed by a wave of scent that was overly rich, a scent so strong as to seem artificial. Will doesn’t have to look to know the origin – older than Will’s eighteen years but not past emerging adulthood, an unmated Alpha, not the head of the pack. By force of habit and self-preservation, Will turns away and tries to tip his nose away from the scent of Alpha _smugness_.

He allows his nose to pick up the smell of the aftershave he doused his neck and soaked his shirt collar with as he does every morning; the splashes on his wrists offer an emergency backup, if needed. Even as he can feel the Alpha approaching, he keeps his expression neutral and blank and holds his unfocused gaze on a white board in the middle distance. His eyes loop around the curves and swirls in the overly elegant script without absorbing the words themselves.

“Our little helper,” the voice nearly purrs. “We were told we would get a Pack Omega.”

Will barely suppresses a cringe at the tone, the implication, the phrasing. The Pack program set him up with this assistantship – ostensibly for his development. Will suspects it was at least in part motivated by wanting a return on their investment. If they’re going to pay for his tuition, they might as well get some labor out of him.

Seemingly unfazed by Will’s lack of response, the Alpha continues in another sly purr, “Do you have a special interest in social exclusion, little helper?”

Will huffs a wry laugh. Social exclusion is a concept at its face value so familiar to Will that when he learned about his assignment, he’d suspected it was a pointed choice. Luckily for him, it is as fascinating as it is achingly familiar.

A cleaner, crisper scent – an air of chilly professionalism, almost clinical, like antiseptic at the doctor’s – pulls at his attention and reminds him to take notice, reminds him who he was waiting on. It is the scent of the leader, an Alpha in charge, unmated into his late 30’s or early 40’s, perhaps. Will does turn to face the source this time, taking in the elements that this scent already foretold, as well as the visuals that scents can’t quite provide but match all the same. His clothes are almost _excessively_ well-made, his scent so _cool_ and _neutral_ , and even his hairstyle lends itself to careful control. His face is perhaps unconventionally attractive and, to counteract, his features are arranged in restraint. His voice is intriguing in its lilt, but ultimately betrays very little in his tone as he says, “Will Graham, I assume.”

“Yes,” Will confirms and rankles slightly in the face of such unfamiliar territory. His thoughts swim with questions – _Is he supposed to offer a handshake? Maybe he should keep his hands to himself. A wave would definitely be incorrect._ For all of his observations about others, he lacks any and all reference points for this kind of environment – though he guesses that was supposedly the point of this whole thing: coming months early for orientations and lessons in how to study, manage time, write effectively, and “build a community.” They all endeavor to show him how he could have a career other than a mechanic or a fisherman if he played his card right. He decides against the handshake and settles for simply saying, “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Lecter. Sorry I’m late. Missed the bus.”

Dr. Lecter simply hums – no empty, disingenuous _it’s okay_ or _don’t worry about it_. Will watches the press of his lips, disapproval evident in their resting position and as they shape the words, “Dr. Crawford informed me that you would be arriving today.”

“Ah, yes, my _Pack Alpha_ ,” Will grumbles sarcastically. The disapproval takes a different flavor at a term that attempts to be clever but fails to remove itself far enough from the past to achieve it. It also serves as a reminder of the conspiratorial conversations the two Alphas could have had about him and how those conversations could then be consumed by others. Will looks at the Alpha that had spoken to him before and sees the sly smirk spread across a well-groomed face, matching his excessively styled clothes. Will does little to hide his frown as he breaks eye contact, looks instead at where he’s gripping the strap of his bag in clenched fists, and mutters bitterly under his breath, “Tasteless.”

“The meeting was an update on the research currently in progress. In addition to studies of my design, there are a couple doctoral students working on their dissertations. I haven’t decided yet what you will be assigned. If you had been at the meeting, you might have been able to tell me your preference.”

Will perks up in interest, eager and willing to let curiosity consume his focus. “You’ll be collaborating with Dr. Du Maurier again,” Will states forthright, his tone not quite a question, but also not lacking in inquiry. “Another randomized control trial in the training clinic.”

“Yes, I will be,” Dr. Lecter replies.

“I read your paper on the relationship between attachment styles and responses to social exclusion in clinical populations. It betrayed the fact that, by the end of it, you were more excited about the implications for future studies than the results of the current one,” Will summarizes plainly, recalling the print out he’d gotten from the library, covered in highlighter marks and sticky notes and likely crumpled and torn from when he’d hastily shoved it in his bag earlier.

“How do you come to these conclusions?” he queries with a tone that betrays a test of sorts. “I may be the primary author, but grad students tend to have a hand in writing the literature as well.”

Will turns his eyes away again and shakes his head slightly as he recalls pouring over the words – the diction, the syntax, the excitement he could feel pouring out of the arrangement of little black letters on a white page. “There’s the kind of passion that comes from someone who has devoted their career to a topic,” he declares with certainty, unwilling to be swayed away from his conclusion.

“You seem to know a lot for someone on his first day,” Dr. Lecter observes, direct but not critical.

“I didn’t want to be unprepared. Wanted to avoid making a bad impression. If only I had known that the buses would be the real challenge,” Will declares in sarcastic self-deprecation.

“Not accustomed to bus commutes,” Dr. Lecter infers.

“Never took a bus to a houseboat,” he says as he nods absently and rubs at the back of his neck.

He observes the variety of students in their clusters around the room – confident students in lively discussions, harried students hurriedly collecting their belongings, and quieter students absorbed in their books and computers.

Dr. Lecter slightly relaxes his stiff, formal posture and, in the process, tilts towards him almost conspiratorially as he explains, “The buses are either five minutes early or five minutes late depending on how good the weather is. Never on time.”

“Predictable in its irregularity,” Will remarks with a laugh, both frustrated by the concept and intrigued by the whimsy. “Who knew buses could be so fickle.”

“One of many things to adjust to,” Dr. Lecter notes. “There will be many details to account for in your work here, plans to stick to, variables to balance. If you’re wanting to work on one of my projects, I require an attention to detail and protocol that might be generously labelled as perfectionistic. The devil is in the details.”

Will turns to face the professor head on, stares straight into the distraction wrought by looking into his eyes, covertly inhales the calm, cold, careful scent, and promises, “I’ll adjust.”

It is impossible to miss Dr. Lecter’s satisfied smirk.

\---

Will manages to use Dr. Lecter’s tip to accurately dissect the bus map and catch a bus back to his dorm. He rounds the hallway corner to find Beverly leaning against his dorm door, half hunched over as she scrolls through something on her phone. Long, black, glossy ribbons of hair have fallen in front of her face and she whips them back with the flick of her head when she notices him coming.

“How was your first day? Did social exclusion club make sure to include you?” she asks with her usual tongue in cheek attitude. It was their wit and sarcasm that drew Will and Beverly together beyond simply having the same _Pack Alpha_. They’d realized early on that the only way to survive would be with heavy doses of dry humor.

He fumbles in his pockets for his keys and after searching every pocket, checks the right front pocket a second time, and finally wraps his fingers around the keyring. “I’m on track to be the pariah of social exclusion,” he jokes wryly as he jams his key in his door and pushes it open with a clumsy push of his shoulder. 

“That’s too bad,” she says flatly as she turns to stand in the doorway. He doesn’t need to see the aloof curve of her eyebrow or smell the simplicity in her scent to know there was no true concern there. Nor should there be. “You could join me in my behavioral biology lab, but be warned: it’s in the gloomiest fucking basement.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he says as he tosses his bag onto his bed. He is momentarily grateful that it doesn’t knock over any of the books that he had left open or the unstapled, unorganized stacks of paper laid out across his bed spread.

“I figured,” she agrees as she eyes the disarray. “How is it that you’ve just moved in and it’s already a disaster?”

“Did you come here for anything other than criticizing my organization skills?” he asks, his displeasure mostly fake.

“Your _lack_ of organization skills,” she retorts. “I came to fetch you for dinner since I know you’d fall into your books and forget to come back to reality for something as boring as _food_.”

Will genuinely gives a laugh at that one and concedes, “I would say you were wrong if I could.”

Will has to shuffle through the papers on his bed to try to figure out how he’s managed to lose his keys again within moments of opening his door. Once he’s collected papers in a messy stack, moved that stack multiple times to smooth his hands against the bunches and wrinkles of his bedspread, and even pat down his pockets a few times, Beverly sighs. Will looks to her – ready to either get snappy or be apologetic, he’s not sure yet – and watches her roll her eyes affectionately as she reaches to yank the keys from where he’d left them in the lock.

“You’d be lost without me,” she says as she twirls the keyring around her finger.

They descend into silence after they leave their dorm building. They’d thankfully also come to a mutual understanding that while their survival depends on spending significant chunks of time together, those chunks needed a mix of humor punctuated by silence.

As they approach the entrance of the dining hall, there is a red head, a slight of build, Beta from what Will could tell, who seems to be everywhere on campus at once. He’s seen her by the dining hall as she is now and stood near the front door of a variety of other campus buildings – student health center, dorms, and buildings that housed various departments. She always has a phone held like a tape recorder in her hand and a camera on her hip.

He’s seen her catch students in her trap an unfortunate number of times. He’s seen how students change sides of the street or use a different entrance to try to evade her but she still somehow manages to ensnare one or two, most of whom were his Pack peers who were too wide-eyed and inexperienced to know to avoid her. Today is no exception.

“Looks like Freddie is out and about as usual,” Beverly observes when she notices Will’s attention linger too long. It’s a test of the waters. 

Will watches for another moment as Peter attempts to politely, anxiously decline whatever was being asked of him this time. He is smart as they all are, but displays a meekness in his posture and expression that unfortunately pales in competition with Freddie’s insistence. When he cowers away, she simply follows. Without much thought, Will pivots in his stride to walk towards the two and can hear the resultant resigned huff behind him. Beverly knows that Will’s been caught on his own hook.

He is quickly close enough to hear whatever invasive question Freddie seems bent on shoving down Peter’s throat hoping that he’ll cough up an answer. “What does it say when a Beta preys on Omegas the moment they step onto campus?”

Freddie pivots, her pleased expression and sharp eyes conveying the poisonous cunning of a spider happy to have caught another fly in her web. “Research always delivers benefits,” she declares easily.

“If it contradicts a good story, hell, publish it anyway,” Will objects sourly, as Peter is left standing and staring at the two of them and Beverly waits with arms crossed and eyes rolling off to the side.

“Everyone decides their own versions of the truth,” Freddie replies unflustered, unbothered. “I’m simply capitalizing on the opportunity, as could you. I would be happy to do profile on you for my website.”

“Absolutely not,” he denies quickly and sharply.

Freddie’s sharp gaze becomes razor-edged. “Afraid of the spotlight?”

“Not afraid, uninterested.”

“Sounds like something someone with something to hide would say. Someone who wears aftershave like he thinks it’s the same as a shower,” she observes. “Are you really so ashamed to be an Omega?”

Will tips his head and brazenly takes a deep inhale. He wrinkles his nose against the stale, mildew smell that underlies an otherwise strong, tart, citrus scent.

“Did you know that weakness has a scent, Freddie?”

“You’re claiming you can smell _weakness_?” she asks with a smile and a laugh, almost as if she’s pleased with the audacity. “ _That’s_ an interesting version of the truth.”

“Your scent can be honest in ways you never will be,” he explains, the damp mustiness still lingering in his nose. “That’s the truth. That’s your weakness.”

“Interesting that you’d try to pull a charade like this,” she continues, squinting her eyes in inquiry and slightly wrinkling her brow. “Begs the question of what lengths you’ll go to in order to feel powerful.”

“Just an observation.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” she replies, very nearly conspiratorial.

“Goodbye, Freddie,” he dismisses as he encourages a stupefied Peter back into movement with a supportive, hovering hand. Beverly follows, still lingering by Will’s side. With her arms still crossed on her chest, he can feel the teasing disapproval wafting off of her without having to hear the words.

“Thank you, Will,” Peter says, once they’ve left Freddie far enough in their wake.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies plainly with a small, hopefully reassuring smile.

Will and Peter wave goodbye to each other and, as soon as Peter scurries out of view, Will can’t ignore Beverly any longer. Instead of catching hints out of the corner of his eye, he makes defiant eye contact with her and is able to see the teasing arch of her eyebrow that he’d already known would be there. He tries to hold the contact, but as quickly as the spiritedness had come to him in his spat with Freddie, it left him just as quickly, leaving behind lethargy.

“You are out of your mind,” Beverly scolds.

“It was no big deal,” he dismisses.

“No big deal?” she scoffs. “My ears rang like the first time I heard my mom use the F-word.”

Will laughs tiredly but genuinely.

“You’re going to be famous now,” she informs him. “Maybe it will earn you points with your new research pals.”

“Either that or lose points.”

“Six one way, half a dozen the other.”

\---

**_Super Scent: Fact or Fiction_ **

**_By Freddie Lounds_ **

_Going to college is an exciting time for any student. It is the time when you become an adult and figure out where you fit in the world. For Will Graham, coming to campus must have seemed to be the perfect opportunity to craft a new self: one that can do the impossible. Likely in the pursuit of acclaim and praise from his new peers (likely, in his mind, his new underlings), Graham presents himself as someone who can use scent like a fortune teller uses a crystal ball. While it is not uncommon for bounded pairs to scent emotions in their mate, Graham seems determined to not only claim to hold this skill as an unbonded Omega, but also extend that claim to beyond whoever might have the misfortune to mate him to include anyone who might cross his path. You will recall that in the past some unbonded romantics have tried to make a similar claim as Graham’s – namely, that they can sense the emotions in their partner regardless of the lack of bond. However, this claim has been historically rejected and all but disproven. Even if it were true, Will Graham is certainly no romantic._

_Click here to read on._

\---

When Will pushes through the heavy door to the research lab his second time, it is in some way akin to the first time. He can feel all eyes on him – critical, confused, annoyed. The cause is not so simple – he is on time today – and the solution is likely more complicated. A bus map and following a piece of advice will probably not suffice.

He does as he has always done in times like these: sit off to the side at a table and find something else to do.

He slides the bag from his shoulder and places it on an unoccupied corner of a table. In the process, he makes brief eye contact with the Beta woman closest to him. He gives a small smile that he knows must come across as at least slightly disingenuous and he quickly turns both his nose and eyes away before he has the chance to gather any further information. Even so, he has already inferred that she is a graduate student and spends a not inconsiderable amount of time with Dr. Lecter, likely a TA, possibly something more _romantic_.

Will tucks his nose against the collar of his shirt and squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. When he opens his eyes again, he grabs an article from his bag that he had started to read on the bus ride over, as well as one of his many highlighters. He allows himself to hone his focus on the words on the page at the expense of all other details around him.

He is jolted out of his focus by a hand on his shoulder, finding that the soft but sure hand with delicately shaped nails is attached to the woman from before.

“I just wanted to say hello,” she reassures. Her face is kind, open; her hair styled and shaped to perfection like the fit of her dress wrapped around the turns and slopes of her shape. Her scent is more concentrated up close and in that concentration, Dr. Lecter’s scent is more diluted – not a lover then.

Will tries to quell his uncertainty and shakiness and hopes that very little of it shows in his voice as he gives a brief, “Hello.”

“I’m Alana, Dr. Lecter’s research assistant,” she explains and Will has to hold himself back from saying that he already knows.

“His second in command,” he remarks blandly instead.

Alana gives him a sweet, welcoming smile and warmth starts to bloom in his nose and under his skin. There is also something teasing and confident in her tone, the turn of her lips, the scrunch of her nose as she says, “I like to think so.”

“Well, if it isn’t our little case study in social exclusion, campus persona non grata,” states the Alpha from yesterday, who seems to have managed to saunter up from over Will’s left shoulder when he’d been momentarily distracted. His tone drips with overdone polish and fake charm. “What I wouldn’t give to study you.”

“Go away, Frederick,” Alana tuts – it is not without good nature. 

“I have great empathy for Will, Alana,” Frederick rebuts, as if anyone should see that his words had been kind. “He needs a friend. Don’t you, friend?”

“Hello, Frederick,” Dr. Lecter greets, in the simultaneous form of a dismissal, another surprise Alpha from over Will’s shoulder. The sound of his voice is a surprise to them all and, at the feeling of getting caught out, the words that had been on the tip of Will’s tongue fall back down his throat. Frederick’s face twists to reveal he is displeased to be dismissed. Alana does not appear flustered, a second in command knows the strategy in retreat. 

“Hello, Will,” Dr. Lecter then greets him, the greeting doubling this time as a summoning.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“If you would follow me to my office,” Dr. Lecter requests and there is only one possible response.

Will stands from his seat, slings his bag over his shoulder, and picks up his papers and highlighter in one hand. Dr. Lecter gestures with a sweep of his arm back out the door to the hall and Will follows his lead. They walk in silence and his eyes scan the posters that line the walls. Dr. Lecter’s name makes many appearances, usually one or two places behind the names of Master’s and Doctorate students and their post-nominal letters – presentations from a plethora of conferences, signals of how students have succeeded under Dr. Lecter’s watch.

Walking beside him, Dr. Lecter’s gaze never seems to stray. He doesn’t need to look around for things to occupy his thoughts or to check that Will is still beside him. He is assured. Under the cover of his inattention, Will quickly eyes Dr. Lecter’s three piece suit of the day – jacket, waistcoat, and trousers a pale blue this time; thin stripes on the shirt; a paisley tie in light blue, pale orange, white, and gold; a plaid pocket square. Will flattens a hand over the cheap plastic buttons and cotton of his own plaid shirt. What it must be like for Dr. Lecter to choose such an outfit for the everyday.

They reach a door bedecked with a debossed plaque that read _Hannibal Lecter, Ph.D_. Once inside, Will is struck by how the office seems to transport them to a different building. The squeak of his shoe disappears against the rug, anything cheap, inexpensive, _modest_ hidden away by wooden bookcases filled to capacity and framed art. A piece of art must cover the light switch too. All the light switches on campus seem to be motion-activated, but the florescent light never flickers on. It is only kept lit by a few lamps and the sunlight that filters in through the curtains.

Dr. Lecter takes his place at his side of the great wooden desk and Will takes his in one of the two modernist chairs on the opposite side, tossing his bag in the other and dropping the contents of his hands on the desk surface. The crisp, cold, clean scent he associates with Dr. Lecter is at its strongest in here and Will can hardly imagine it could get stronger. What Will’s soaked in his collar pales by comparison.

“You’ve done a lot of reading, Will,” Dr. Lecter starts, peering at Will with discerning eyes. “Do you know how social exclusion works?”

“It activates an alarm system,” Will recites from memory, a recollection of the many _Introduction_ s he’s absorbed lately. He ducks his head and absently scans the pile of papers on the desk. “The temporal need-threat model says excluded people first experience neural pain reactions similar to physical pain.”

“That is correct,” Dr. Lecter confirms, not approving, not yet. Will can hear it in his voice, in just how _straight-forward_ it is. “Do you know what happens next?”

“They try to fix it, ease the pain.”

“They adjust and adapt,” Dr. Lecter corrects. Those discerning eyes are paired with a subtle intensity in expression. Will sees it in the squint of his eyes, has to look to see it. 

“No need to adjust to something that’s not new,” he replies as he looks to the books lining the bookcases along the walls.

“Not found of eye contact are you?”

“ _Eye contact_ is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Scent too,” Dr. Lecter agrees. “We get social scenting from our animal ancestors. Our senses are meant to provide information to guide us as we move through the world. It is also meant to be discriminatory – a calibrated recognition system. You recognize _everyone_ the way others recognize very few.” 

“Wouldn’t pick you out as a fan of campus tabloids.” 

“Dr. Crawford told me about your gift,” Dr. Lecter assures.

Will hums testily before he says, “No doubt a description that is as equally sensationalist, but with a more positive spin.”

“The words were not sensationalist but they did create a captivating image: the teacup best admired through the glass in the cabinet until the day when there’s an event that warrants its use.”

Will laughs mirthlessly. “ _That_ is sensationalist.”

“As a spearhead in Behavioral Science and Criminology, Dr. Crawford is excited by the idea that you might be able to visit a crime scene and through a simple intake of breath, determine the perpetrator’s approximate age, bond status, and both primary and secondary genders, as well as deducing emotion and motive.” 

“I’m not a cadaver dog, _sniffing_ for the trail left by a corpse.”

“Dogs can have many strengths,” Dr. Lecter observes as he taps at the stack of papers Will had been reading – a research article titled _“Man’s Best Friend: How the presence of a dog reduces mental distress after social exclusion_ ” – and, granted, that had been more of a personal selection on Will’s part than an academic one.

Will splays his hands across the printed pages, smoothing over where Dr. Lecter had tapped, and considers. “Do you think I could use this and Freddie’s article to argue for an emotional support animal? I’ve always wanted a dog.”

“Probably not.”

“Shame,” he tuts. “I should be allowed to make lemonade after encountering a lemon.”

“A lemon,” Dr. Lecter repeats.

The pleased twitch at the corner of Dr. Lecter’s lips makes Will chuckle; a whisper of laughter from Dr. Lecter turns that chuckle into a hearty, honest laugh. Will lets it shake through him, rattle at the tension in his ribcage, creating a vacant space where he is usually full to bursting.

“I’m not interested in Criminal Justice,” Will insists, steadfast, once their laughter has died down.

“Is it fear that you would not be good at it or that it would not be good for you?”

“I think _yes_ is the answer to that,” Will replies with a cheeky smile.

“A protean career orientation involves manifesting self-management to plan for and implement career decisions based on personal values and needs.”

“Is that how you do it? Use your professional life to sort out your personal one,” Will responds and, before he can think to hold it back, continues. “ _Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion_ – starting your career trying to justify your high standards and now you’re studying how to fix the damage.”

“You read my dissertation,” Dr. Lecter remarks, flexing his neck up and away. Will watches him lick his lips and smooth a hand down an immaculately smooth, perfectly buttoned waistcoat. “I suppose I cannot fault you for having the information or interpreting it.”

“Not exactly the behavior of fine china,” he apologizes with a modest wince. “Bad _self-management._ ”

Dr. Lecter clicks his tongue quickly and straightens the pencils lined side-by-side in front of him. “I’ve decided to place you at the front desk for my study with Dr. Du Maurier.”

“The front desk?” he questions in surprise and, in clarification, adds, “That may require me to be sociable.”

He locks eyes with Dr. Lecter, whose airs have returned to chilly and contained, having the quality of being perfectly collected. His eyes are somehow softer, rounder, as are his lips. “After you’ve checked in all the clients, you will be able to observe the sessions from behind the one-way mirror, an invaluable experience for someone honing their skills.”

\---

The entire building floor seems abuzz. The energy is anxious in eagerness and unease. The study is set to start and his students are hard at work – as they always are when they know Hannibal is there to observe them. The hum of noise machines contributes to the clamor rather than concealing it. Students flit back and forth across the hall in front of him, darting between the clinic waiting room and communal workroom where they will need to hide themselves away as clients arrive.

Clients and clinicians are prone to pretending each other only exist in the time and space between departing from and arriving to the waiting room.

Hannibal steps into said waiting room, scanning his eyes in attentive appraisal. The various lamps are lit, magazines are spread innocuously on a table between several nondescript couches, everything kept benign. Alana hovers over Will at the desk, likely pointing out the assorted functions of their scheduling software, informing Will of the process for letting the student-clinicians know when it is safe to emerge.

Bedelia does a similar scan of the room when she enters. Her eyes likewise land on Alana and Will. “How is your Pack student settling in?”

He nods to her in greeting and considers before he answers, “There are challenges to any new endeavor.”

“Will Graham’s first week has included more than a fair share of excitement,” she counters. “Did you consider keeping him out of the fray?”

“That would be a disservice to his education.”

“Students benefit from proper pacing,” she reminds him. Her tone is plain. She knows he will not be convinced with this one comment no matter the inflection. She intends for it to chip away. He takes in the image of her perfectly coiffed hair and immaculate clothes. He knows how the two of them look outside and in. 

“Will only needs to learn to check clients in and out,” he states plainly. The piercing look he receives declares that while Hannibal will not bend, Bedelia will only repeat herself so much, so for both their sakes he adds, “Alana will look after him.”

Hannibal and Bedelia both turn their gaze acutely on Will and Alana. With the need to share the view of the computer having passed, Alana has crossed around to the other side of the desk and stands at a casual distance with pacifying body language. Will’s eyes repeatedly move quickly to and away from Alana, flitting to the computer, the couches, the table with the coffee maker and teas. Will’s hair is long, curling around his face and down the back of his neck, some of it tucking into the collar of his shirt, some of it spilling over the edge. Will seems temporarily devoid of the wrinkle in his brow. His face is smooth – clean-shaven, even, and pleasant. The softness of Will’s cheek reminds him of the student’s cutting wit and accurate dissections.

Hannibal and Bedelia share more commonalities than differences. In his knowledge of their differences, he knows how they each interpret the tableau. They are both well-aware that Alana is sympathetic, perceptive, and self-aware in ways that lend themselves to her accomplishments as a clinician with peers and clients alike. Hannibal considers how the praise Alana receives for her awareness can become a hinderance when uncritical over-reliance on this perceptiveness results in significant blind spots that border on willful denial. Bedelia’s attention emphasizes that it will be good for Will to have some warmth to go to, especially when he will be so often in proximity to Hannibal’s cold demeanor.

Hannibal knows that in ants and bees, an outsider might initially be attacked, but if that outsider is protected from attack for some time, it can eventually become adopted, find its place. They both agree that Will may need assistance to keep from being driven from the hive. 

He takes his leave from Bedelia. When crossing the hall with the intent to cause one last stir amongst his drones, there is a flash of red. A vibrant redhead dressed in ox’s blood in its many iterations – the lace of tights, the pleather of her dress, underlying the crisscross on her jacket. Her eyes’ critical search up and down the dreary halls and around the corners might be mistaken for those of someone innocently lost. 

“May I be of assistance?” he asks with matching disingenuousness. He pivots his body strategically between the student and the door.

“I’m just looking for the waiting room. I’m here for my first appointment,” she explains breathlessly.

“I don’t recall selecting you to participate.”

“I talked with one of your grad students, I think,” she explains, theatrically tapping her chin. “We had a good conversation. I’m _so_ _excited_ to get started.”

“Did you come here for Will Graham or are you stalking another student as well?”

The brief sigh and twist of her head are somewhat impressive in their control, a solid effort to maintain the character. “I am so embarrassed.” 

“You’ve been very rude, Miss Lounds. What’s to be done about that?” he poses rhetorically. “The Director for the Office of Student Conduct and I are friendly. I could give her a call and see if she has any suggestions.”

The interloper gives him a wink as she says, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Out of consideration for clients’ privacy, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Out of consideration for yourself, I would recommend that you do not return.”

The satisfaction that bleeds through her otherwise neutral expression tells him that she considers this a battle won. She makes a strategic retreat and turns around and walks back the way she came down the hall – although she does cast a look or two over her shoulder and around the corner.

Hannibal will call his friend the Director tomorrow morning and invite her to a dinner party.

\---

Will knows that Alana’s invite to the study kick-off party was most likely out of pity. She’d told him he was welcome to join and she even offered that he could bring a friend along. The expression on her face had been warm and her hand gestures had been open and non-threatening. For as much as he relied on physical cues, he also has a great grasp of context: grad students don’t want a party crashed by a barely-but-not-quite first year student. He appreciated her effort but knew that more than one person would be relieved if he turned down the invitation.

He intended to do some reading instead. He’d finished the dog article quickly and told his dad all about it when he’d called – plus threw in some details about the positive impact of dogs on blood pressure. Unfortunately, no dice. He planned to move on to one of the other many articles he’d printed out at the library.

Those had been his plans, but, as soon as he made the mistake of mentioning the party to Beverly, he knew it was a mistake. The twist of her lips and glint in her eye told him loud and clear that the sarcasm in his tone was largely irrelevant. His grumbling and groaning failed to register. He could hear the words of protest tumbling from his mouth but the tug on his arm got him out of bed and he put on the shirt Beverly shoved at him. He could tell the moment when Beverly debated whether she could chance changing her clothes as well. He could see the moment when she decided that if she left his room, she would most likely come back to it locked. She wasn’t wrong. 

Alana buzzes them up to her apartment shortly after they arrive. It is nice, but homey. The floors are wood and the furniture is a mixture but not a mishmash. The scents in the room are muddled, too many combinations of various individual scents, his senses catch a whiff of one and can barely process it before another breezes in. He can latch onto the scent that clings to them from shared community – Dr. Lecter’s presence even when not physically occupying a room. He can also identify Alana’s scent as it arises to prominence from time to time, as well as the Omega scent he’d discovered when she’d gotten close to help him earlier: something floral, a touch powdery, not in a way that speaks of age, but sophistication, restraint.

People have scattered themselves onto the collection of inherited couches and arm chairs, periodically reaching for bowls of popcorn and chips as they sip on drinks in glasses and plastic cups. He recognizes some of the faces – members of Dr. Lecter and Dr. Du Maurier’s research labs, including some who served as clinicians in the study. They are no longer in their acceptably neutral, professional therapist attire, sitting primly on their seats. Instead, they slouch in casual, personable clumps dressed comfortably for the summer heat. Some of the eyes look to him and, in clear disinterest and lack of recollection, they quickly look away. Others look to him in combinations of interest and examination.

He can only imagine what kind of information about him they’ll try to use their various tricks to get out of Beverly. Usually, he knows that they would only get the amount of information that Bev wants them to have – for better or for worse – but depending on how much alcohol they let her have, circumstances may tip in their favor.

There is one saving grace: _Applesauce_. As Beverly makes a bee-line to the kitchen in pursuit of alcohol, Will makes his own bee-line to Applesauce, who sits content and calm on her bed by the floor. Being near the center of activity is made worthwhile when he kneels on Alana’s worn hardwood floors to rub at the dog’s head and scratch behind her ears. He pets at Applesauce’s spotted belly and questions again if he could manage to convince someone to give him an ESA.

His ruminating on whether Alana would let him treat Applesauce to her namesake is interrupted as Frederick clears his throat and takes one step out to stand more front and center. He has similarly dressed down from the blazer he seems to feel compelled to wear in every other setting, replacing it with a respectable pairing of shirt and slacks. With a self-satisfied smirk, he raises his voice and declares, “Time for a toast: _Here’s to surviving the start of Dr. Lucifer’s latest design. May we all live to see its conclusion_.”

As Frederick takes a smug swig out of his glass, Will watches others gulp and chug. Even Beverly, who has never met Dr. Lecter and likely never will, takes an indulgent swallow or two of whatever alcohol is mixed in her cup.

In the brief calm before the roar of conversation resumes, Beverly crosses the room and hands him the cup in her non-dominant hand. He nods to her in quiet thanks before taking a mouthful or two of what he discovers is actually a fairly decent whiskey drink. As the drink burns its way to his belly, he thinks of the times when his dad let him have a drink of his whiskey after a particularly successful fishing trip and a glass of the fancy stuff if his dad could swing for it on Christmas. 

Alana joins them, positioning herself next to Will, creating both a bridge and a barrier between him and Frederick. Although her apartment is reasonably well air-conditioned, there is a flush to her skin, particularly her rosy cheeks.

“Frederick, you’ll give Will the wrong idea,” Alana admonishes, though Will noticed she’d taken her own – albeit more restrained – sip at the end of the toast. When Frederick mumbles “ _Or the right one”_ under his breath, she tsk-tsks and insists, “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s quantifiably _bitchy_ ,” he proclaims. “He refuted my entire prelim _during_ my oral defense.”

“Dr. Lecter wants you to be able to think on your feet,” she explains, seeming as if she has explained it many times before, “He wants you to be able to hold up to scrutiny.”

“It was _after_ he’d looked over it and told me it was _fine,”_ he spits, anger seeping into his tone and turning it _slippery_. “I realize you have some sort of vested interest in making excuses for him, but even you have to admit that his _scrutiny_ is _pathological_. Probably Cluster B, maybe Cluster C.”

“Now, Frederick, we diagnose clients, not colleagues,” Anthony admonishes, though the tones of his posh British accent and the ever-present smirk portray that he doesn’t actually much mind. Will had learned his name when Anthony amiably asked him to confirm the appointment times with each of his clients after he escorted them back to the waiting room. Will had noticed the grey in his hair, likely simultaneously slightly premature and a sign of pursuing this doctorate degree closer to the end of young adulthood than the beginning. Maybe he’d tried his hand at something else first, perhaps this is a second doctorate. He _radiates_ with the confidence that could come from accomplishment, but the saccharine scent that had seeped through his blazer in between notes of smoke, wood, and aged paper betrayed that the confidence might be partially misplaced.

“Dr. Lecter goes out of his way to make sure I know that we are _not colleagues_ ,” Frederick sneers as an excuse. “How Dr. Du Maurier manages to be friends with him is beyond me.”

“She sings his praises,” Anthony asserts with a nonchalant tip of his frown. “In her own way.”

“No doubt she has a professional curiosity,” Frederick surmises. 

“Don’t you? Aren’t you curious about the who’s, and how’s, and why’s of his _twistedness_?” Anthony asks, wicked and cheeky.

Frederick shrugs in reluctant agreement. The answer to the question doesn’t need to be said to be known. He tips his glass to his mouth although it is now essentially only ice. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that Social Exclusion Club was this _juicy_ ,” Beverly raves, barely above a whisper in Will’s ear. 

He narrows his eyes at her and sourly takes a drink of the whiskey concoction. He closes his eyes and focuses on the burn of alcohol, the taste of whiskey, the scent of cologne at his collar and dog at his feet. He half-listens to Beverly and Alana make friendly conversation. They discuss the origin of the whiskey – Alana’s girlfriend, apparently – as soft strands of dog fur pass between his fingers.

He will eventually try to use alcohol to blunt his senses and head off the building headache, drinking more of the fancy whiskey than he has any business doing. The fog of scents will fade to the background and he will experience relief until the moment when he experiences regret. Thankfully, he will not experience _true regret_ until he’s returned safely somehow to his dorm building.

He will wake up tomorrow not entirely sure he isn’t still drunk, but completely sure that his head _pounds_ and his mouth tastes _disgusting_. He will notice that Beverly stayed the night on his floor even though her room is just down the hall. He will notice that there is a smudge of lipstick on Beverly’s jaw that is not hers and remember in a flash watching her make out with _someone_ – _a Beta? Alpha? Part of the lab? Friend of one of his peers?_ Beverly will groan as she wakes up and they will try to motivate each other into getting vertical. He will swear to Beverly that he never wants to drink again as they eat greasy, salty cafeteria breakfast with the hope that it is a panacea in disguise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've questioned if I should include a biography at the end of chapters. Just to let y'all know, any study, research, theory, etc. that's referenced in this fic is real (unless I attribute it to a particular character). I've read a lot of social exclusion research because of this fic. Here's hoping my everyday life gives me excuses to use all this random knowledge again. 
> 
> With regards to the tags, I'm transmasc/non-binary and I personally prefer not to write sex between two cis guys. I didn't want to tag it as trans or intersex Will, because I'm not really trying to speak to the experiences of those identities. I just want to write dude with a vagina with as much ease and casualness as I can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: vague mentions of suicidal thoughts, sex things

It becomes a challenge to manage all the moving pieces. During the Pack’s _Summer Experience_ program, he has fewer classes to manage than he will when the actual semester starts, which helps. However, the clinic is open for their research sessions in the evening for the convenience of normal clinic functions and clients who need appointments in the evening after their 9-5s. This is unfortunately _inconvenient_ for Will, who has mastered the art of catching the bus, but is powerless to the fact that the later in the evening it is, the more infrequently they come.

When group supervision ends at 9pm, Will must hope for bad weather. On his lucky days, it is raining and he takes his seat soaking wet; on unlucky days, he is perfectly dry for an hour as he waits for his next opportunity. 

Regardless, he knows rain or shine he’ll be missing the bus today. He stays seated on the bench in the hall knowing there is nowhere to rush to. The others mill out around him, shuffling and bustling on their way home, desperate to get somewhere they can decompress. Several affectionately touch Alana on the shoulder or give her a hug on their way out and she smiles and thanks each and every one of them before taking her own leave. He remains, smelling the cold, damp of melancholy intermingling with the crisp scent of relief, like morning dew. He gives his own smile and nod to Alana as she walks by with her phone pressed to her ear – the comfort to be found in going home to a loved one.

Will sighs as he texts Beverly to tell her she can get dinner without him. It being a Friday night, they had hoped to splurge with dinner at the diner across the street – burgers, fries, and peanut butter pie – but the pie will be gone by the time he gets back.

He places a hand over his stomach when it growls.

“Do you need a meal, Will?”

He turns around, taking in the ever immaculate image of Dr. Lecter in his three piece suit. Today, it’s a vibrant orange shirt and an orange tie with a bold blue pattern underneath a dark brown, plaided vest and jacket. For all the fluster there was before, Dr. Lecter looks just the same, not a single hair out of place or flush of worry – the eye of the storm. The only things out of place are the two travel containers and silverware, so _normal_ -seeming. 

Dr. Lecter seems to interpret his confusion as uncertainty about whether to accept rather than confusion that Dr. Lecter does normal things like make himself a pack lunch. He tilts his head kindly to the side and smiles ever so slightly as he encourages, “It would be inconsiderate to force a student to wait by the bus stop for an hour and rude to force a hungry one to watch me eat and not share.”

Dr. Lecter ushers him down the hall past the staff rooms to Dr. Du Maurier’s office. The professor steps behind the desk and Will takes his seat in one of the chairs around the front side. He watches as Dr. Lecter slips off his jacket and sets it carefully folded in half along the top of the wooden desk before returning his hands to popping off the container lids.

“I am very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself,” Dr. Lecter explains as he checks the contents of each container and slides one over to Will.

“It looks delicious. Thank you,” he praises and it does. Inside the fanciest food containers Will’s ever seen is arguably the fanciest food he’s ever seen. It’s hard to fathom that the combination of colors and intricately cut shapes is a _pack lunch_.

“My pleasure.”

The angry, hungry knot in his stomach unwinds a touch after Will’s brought a few bites to his mouth. He observes Dr. Lecter doing the same. While Dr. Lecter’s office had been soaked in his scent, the contrast in Dr. Du Maurier’s office highlights that more than just the to-go containers are out of place. “You’re not going home,” he remarks. 

“There remains details to attend to,” Dr. Lecter answers simply, frankly. “Alana did her part writing up the documentation but, as the supervisor, I need to review it.”

“You brought dinner with you before you knew that would happen,” he points out a moment before he realizes, ”Unless you did know.”

The professor’s lips twitch up almost imperceptibly and his eyes tip up knowingly from where his attention had been directed towards his food. The faint smile persists as he agrees, “I noticed some signs last session that it might be a possibility and planned accordingly.”

Will thinks of how Alana had guided the conversation. He recalls the inflections she pursued, the details she highlighted, how the conversation built and intensified to one vital turning point. He’d watched the session enraptured. Dr. Lecter had been attentively seated next to him behind the one-way mirror until the precise moment when he excused himself and disappeared to reappear on the other side of the window.

“You told Alana what questions to ask.”

“If Alana wants to specialize in family trauma, she will need to know how to ask the questions and what to do with the answers.” 

“What happens now? Can the client still be in the study?”

“That will depend primarily on if they are admitted at the hospital and need a higher level of care.”

“Why wouldn’t they be admitted?” Will asks incredulously, thinking of the concreteness in the words that had been used to describe thoughts of dying and plans to bring it about. Will recalls how the enveloping sadness, the sink into the deep, spilled through the mirror’s thin divide and chilled his bones.

Dr. Lecter pauses for a moment, stills his hands and brackets them around his meal as he explains, “Sometimes people arrive at a place, realize what it would be like to stay, and say what they need to in order to be let go.”

Will’s eyes slip closed as he feels the echo of despair reverberating in his insides, thinks of Alana’s caring questions and unwavering support, recalls the calm sincerity in Dr. Lecter’s tone and posture, remembers the calls that were made and an escort out of the building and into a waiting car, and envisions arriving to the hospital only to find apathy in the sterility.

“The hospital doesn’t care to keep them,” Will sighs as he rubs his eyes and brows in exasperation.

“With this client in particular, it will be important to show that words matter. They are living things with personality, point of view, agenda,” Dr. Lecter explains as he resumes his eating with ease. “If they say they intend to die, we will listen and act accordingly, even if there are others who might not show the same respect.”

“Do you think they will come back?” he asks. His imagination had been tinged at the tail-end with feeling both the desire to return to Alana’s warmth and care and the wish to never have to face her again.

“Trust can be rebuilt so long as a client is still alive.”

The way Dr. Lecter says it is seemingly neutral, instructional, perhaps could be interpreted as cavalier. It conjures memories of the party – what he _can_ remember of it – and Frederick’s sour, bitter condemnation. He thinks of the way students around him scatter at just the threat of Dr. Lecter’s presence, antelope in a herd bolting for fear of sharp teeth.

He’s watched Dr. Lecter since the party. He’s listened to the words Dr. Lecter whispered in the room hidden behind the mirrors, noted the way Dr. Lecter shifted between observing various co-occurring sessions, and observed the feedback Dr. Lecter gave as supervisor. The professor’s eyes flitted between therapist and client taking in every detail in each person, perfectly dissected them, and pieced them back together in his critique.

In all this watching, observing, and noting, there had been a moment when what Will felt was something akin to déjà vu. He’d felt as if he was looking into the mirror instead of acting as it. 

_Loudmouth. Wiseass. Freak._

“ _L’appel du vide_ ,” Dr. Lecter remarks, pulling Will back from his thoughts, “ _the_ _call of the void_ : the sudden urge to jump when at a high place. It is thought that this is associated with a latent death wish in us all. There is a study, however, that suggests that it is in fact a discordance in our fear circuitry and safety signaling: our system compels us to back up and our mind misinterprets this as meaning to jump.”

Will observes the glimmer in Dr. Lecter’s eyes, sees it glint and gleam, and neither he nor Dr. Lecter shrink away. “They stood on the ledge and interpreted their distress as the desire to jump. They needed to experience that their true instinct was to back up, to _live_.”

“Ostracized people have a different relationship with darkness,” Dr. Lecter instructs. “They visually perceive their surroundings as darker, while also having an increased desire for brightness. It can be so unconsciously ingrained that they can have a preference for brighter clothing.”

Will casts his eyes around the room, taking in the lights and shadows cast by the little lamps sitting on bookshelves and standing in the corners. They cast enough of a glow to keep the room perhaps lit _just enough_ during the day, but become very nearly ominous by night. The incandescence is a soft light on Dr. Lecter’s face. The shadows cast below the prominence of his brow and cheekbones threaten to hide away his eyes and cheeks. Will feels pangs of longing to rediscover them, feel with a touch of fingers that they aren’t disappearing.

“It’s dark in here,” Will breathes.

Dr. Lecter’s smile has its own small shadow as he remarks, “The consequence of therapists’ distain for overhead lighting.”

At that, Will smiles too. “They’re not seeking brightness?”

“Might be rationalized as wanting to avoid anything too harsh or too artificial.”

“The harsh and the artificial,” he echoes. “I wonder if we see this darkness the same.”

“Each person sees the world differently but we assume others’ perspectives are the same – the same color, same tone, same inflection. We are all incorrect in that assumption. All of us except for you. For a moment, you experience yourself as the same as others and, in shifting between the sameness, you experience the differences between each of us.” Dr. Lecter pauses once more in his eating and in his instructing. He gives Will his full attention as he insists, “You do not need to wonder to know.”

For a moment, all else fades away – all else but the planes and lines of Dr. Lecter’s handsome face, the sturdy shape of his shoulders, the strength and elegance in his hands. Will considers and drinks in Dr. Lecter’s scent, such as it is: sanitized with care. The crease in Will’s brow smooths, almost a matching pair with the composed expression across from him.

It doesn’t take any special skill to know how Dr. Lecter feels about harshness. Artificiality, though, may be another matter, one that hinges on the difference between _artificiality_ and _inauthenticity_.

A smile pulls at Will’s lips and he spears another intricately cut and shaped sliver of vegetable on his fork and brings it to his lips. “You know, I read a study of ostracism that measured aggression by how much hot sauce a person would put in hypothetical food for someone they knew disliked spice.”

Will watches Dr. Lecter watch him as he deliberately takes another bite. Will can feel the twitch in Dr. Lecter’s lips as much as he sees it as Dr. Lecter asks him, “And how do you find your food?”

“Perfect,” he confirms, “But then again, I like spice.”

\---

Will’s bus ride home is dark and empty. They soften the lights at night even on the bus. There’s not enough light to read his papers without a straining squint, so he gives up on reading easily and looks out the window at the mostly empty streets and sidewalks passing by.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, probably Beverly gloating about her piece of pie. If he’s lucky, she’ll have bought him an extra. If he’s not, he’ll just get bombarded with pictures of what he missed out on. The back-to-back buzzing seems to give him his answer without even having to look at the screen but he doesn’t feel unlucky. It’s hard to imagine diner pie pairing well with the delicacies he had for dinner.

He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to the warmish window glass, and feels the outside world pass him by. The bus’ starting and stopping fades away. Behind his eyelids, the darkness of the bus fades to the darkness of an office; the stale smell turns to a scent that’s crisp and clean; and the empty seat next to him is filled.

Will is usually intensely aware of the space in between him and any other. He braces himself for others encroaching. He dreads sitting next to someone – experiencing their scent, drawing conclusions and meaning, interpreting their actions. But, here and now, he feels a pull in his chest to lean into a body that’s pleasing in its reservation and rest his head on a shoulder bedecked with plaid.

A breath of air huffs out between his teeth.

Another buzz in his pocket pulls him from his thoughts and he startles when he realizes he’s just about to miss his stop. His hands fumble as he reaches for the line and tugs it until he hears the confirming ding. As the bus lurches to a halt, he scrambles and stumbles from his seat to the exit and out to the curb.

It’s not until he’s back in his dorm room that he thinks about checking his phone again. There are five texts from Beverly, as expected. There is also one email notification – an email from Dr. Lecter with a myriad of attached documents. Will’s janky laptop gives a loud crack as he opens it and it starts with a loud whir. The first few attachments are research articles. His eyes do a quick scan and find the words _call of the void_ and _judgements of darkness and brightness_. There are also articles about attachment styles and he is surprised to find that the last document is the study’s treatment manual – something he’s heard about plenty of times, but was never given.

He pours over each page, starting with the articles they’ve discussed. He absorbs the context for every study and matches what Dr. Lecter had said with what he reads. He considers the purpose the studies meant to hold and if their creators ever considered that they might be shared with reverence over dinner.

His eyes burn for sleep by the time he gets to the articles on attachment and he falls asleep to words of security and safety.

\---

“I read what you sent me,” Will announces.

At his seat behind Dr. Du Maurier’s desk, Dr. Lecter looks up from the paperwork in front of him, seems to consider Will for a moment, and then gives him a rather sweet smile as he remarks, “So you did.”

Dr. Lecter smooths away the papers and replaces them with a book and another series of ceramic food containers. At the encouraging wrinkle of Dr. Lecter’s brow, Will steps more fully into the room and seats himself in the chair he’d occupied a few days before. He slides a hand over the book cover – a hardback, older, smelling slightly of age and starting to discolor but otherwise pristine – and slides his fingers over the words _Attachment and Loss_. 

“ _A lasting psychological connectedness between human beings,”_ Will recites as he eyes the authorship. “It’s hard to swallow that what happens to someone when they’re younger is something they may never shake.”

Even without seeing it, he can feel Dr. Lecter’s curious gaze on him. “Why does that frighten you?”

“There are more ways for attachment to go wrong than go right.”

“That would be an overly simplistic view,” Dr. Lecter admonishes, as he accommodates Will’s distraction and opens his containers for him. He slides them into their proper places in front of Will as he explains, “Attachment is evolutionary. It is instinctive; an adaptation to one’s environment as equipment for survival. Holding any one set of equipment as a universal standard disregards the differences in environment. ‘ _In an environment in which the only source of light is a naked flame, moths fly to their deaths_.’”

“Your own treatment manual describes secure attachment more favorably than the other three,” Will argues, remembering the words he’d devoured so enthusiastically and how he’s been struggling to digest them ever since. 

“There is a difference between highlighting what children _ought_ to experience and condemning the children who did not experience what they ought and the adults they become.”

“Your treatment isn’t designed to fix it.”

“There is no fixing what has already been done. The purpose in our study is to understand a client’s baseline framework and, with this understanding, increase insight, instinct, and adaptivity. Our participants interpreted and responded to ostracism through the lens of their past. We use the present to create a new future.”

Will thinks of Alana’s client, who’d spent the entirety of his session today fretting over whether or not Alana wanted to be his friend and lamenting Will’s caustic attitude and refusal to small talk about cheese and tyromancy.

When Alana discussed it during supervision, Will had felt the sideways glances and clinical inspections. The way they saw it he’d created ostracism in real time and tarnished the safety of the waiting room with his indifference. 

The eyes persisted as Dr. Lecter critiqued Alana. He’d asserted that Alana should be honest about her disinterest in friendship. The stares diverted slightly when the professor maintained that Alana should have pursued her client’s fixation on Will and used this experience to create better understanding about his apparent need to be liked. Dr. Lecter had declared, _“Every experience brought into the therapeutic space is an opportunity to facilitate insight.”_

“Your reputation suggests that you tend to avoid attachment altogether,” Will puts forward.

“That is my reputation.”

“Funny thing reputations,” he muses as he moves his hands away from the book cover and finally starts to eat. “You’d think with the way that I am, I’d be better at attaching.”

“Like attachment styles, reputations might have some basis in truth but can reach far beyond their scope.”

Will pokes at his food absentmindedly with his fork. “Secure attachment feels mythical: a make-believe phenomenon where mothers don’t leave their young behind and the young know their mothers will always be there.”

“Tell me about your mother.”

His focus sharpens. He looks at Dr. Lecter sternly and counters, “I’m not here to be studied, Dr. Lecter.”

Dr. Lecter smiles, perhaps genuine, perhaps an attempt to placate. “No, you are not. And yet I ask nonetheless.”

“Never knew her.”

“And your father?” Dr. Lecter encourages meaningfully.

Will sighs and concedes, “He seems _faded_. You don’t think of Alphas like that. They’re aggressive or domineering or _smug_ , always _wanting things_. With him, that’s all been emptied out – like he left when she did.”

“And yet you think of him fondly.”

Will shrugs and swallows a delicious bite of Dr. Lecter’s latest delicacy. “There’d be no point to feeling otherwise.”

Dr. Lecter clicks his tongue and with a pedantic, almost disappointed tone challenges, “In matters of emotion, whether or not there’s a _point_ can be largely irrelevant.”

“You’re an expert in emotions, then?”

“In an academic sense, if not a personal one,” Dr. Lecter grants with an unbothered lift of his brows. “Much the same with you, I’d imagine.”

Will spears another bite on his fork and wonders about meals like this, effortful meals eaten in semi-darkness. He looks at the perfectly cut pieces of vegetable, not shaped this time but flawlessly uniform, which is impressive all the same. Will thinks about creating such perfection and eating it alone.

“And you, Dr. Lecter? What tales do you have of your childhood?”

“Both my parents died when I was very young,” Dr. Lecter admits easily. “The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16.”

“Not exactly the recipe for secure attachment either then,” Will replies fondly.

“No, it wasn’t,” he agrees, both soft and harsh in the dim lights. His mouth is held relaxed – or as relaxed as it might get – and his lips cast a shadow. What an interesting mouth he has. 

“What are people like us meant to do, Dr. Lecter, when we’ve been set on the wrong path?” he asks tenderly. “How are we meant to use our present?”

Dr. Lecter’s lips tip to a smile. “Enjoy care and comfort where we can.”

\---

It is after the sixth iteration of such dinners between he and Will that Hannibal returns from escorting Will out only to find Bedelia behind her desk. Seated amongst the dishes left momentarily left behind, she is both where she ought to be and where she ought not to be.

He does not let his pace falter or allow his expression to betray his surprise. Under Bedelia’s watchful gaze, he simply continues as he intended and starts to clear away the cutlery and piece together the containers.

“This always goes better if I’m perfectly honest with you,” she says with her usual careful tone and thoughtful diction. She watches him from her chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped over her knee. She makes no move to help because there is no need to pretend. Hannibal will always clean up after himself and it would be impolite to suggest otherwise.

He meets her eyes and blandly agrees, “What would be the point otherwise?”

She tips her face lower and to the side and the new angle pairs well as she admonishes, “One of us has to be honest.”

“I’m honest.”

“You are your _interpretation_ of honest.”

He looks at her curiously as he tucks the last of his belongings away and moves on to return his jacket to its proper place as well. “I have often been accused of being _too_ honest and am hardly ever accused of being not honest enough,” he points out with a measure of humor.

“To you, honesty is a weapon. It is offensive and defensive. It conceals any of your imperfections and condemns others for theirs: an armored suit that keeps out as much as it traps within,” she explains. “It is a lonely thing, your honesty.”

He smooths his hands along his tie and buttons and resituates his pocket square as he asserts, “The quality of a friendship is more valuable than the quantity. I am selective in my friendships.”

“Your most recent selection in friendship stands out most prominently,” she remarks. Her eyes scan the top of her desk and, even if it is now empty, the meaning remains.

“You mistake mentorship and friendship.”

He has given Will something to read with each dinner – once or twice it was a few articles, once or twice it was a book, and once he’d given Will two books just to see if he would or could devour the both of them in one night. He’d felt something akin to pride only an hour or two ago when Will returned both books promptly with insights and thoughts to share.

“And yet I say _friendship_ and we both came to think of Will Graham.”

“You were rather overt in your implications,” he tuts. Bedelia remains still. Will would have smiled.

“You can only have friends in so far as you allow them, Hannibal. You have deemed viable options as unfit and in their place allow a friendship that is inappropriate.”

“You and I have different understandings of what constitutes a viable option.”

Bedelia purses her lips and considers him carefully. “Why have you decided to select Will Graham as your friend?”

“Will is a remarkable student,” he replies, an easy piece of honesty. 

“Someone worthy of your friendship,” she agrees and, in her agreement, he knows it will be used as a piece of her puzzle. “Do you see yourself in him and like what you see? See your own face looking back in a mirror, admire what you see, and feel some affection for the person who holds the glass.”

“Will and I see and move through the world in different ways,” he disagress. “As hard as he tries, Will can’t repress who he is. Truth will out.”

“One with too much empathy and one with too little,” she observes. “What can’t you repress Hannibal?”

“There are those who would consider me to be the pinnacle of self-control.”

Bedelia draws in a deep breath. It’s loud in an otherwise silent room, loud coming from an otherwise restrained woman. It seems to bolster her as she asks, “Do you have feelings for Will Graham?”

“That would be inappropriate.”

“It would be,” she agrees meaningfully. They know that sometimes something is said not because the other person is unknowing but to remove viable excuses.

“Do you think of me as someone who has a tendency to be inappropriate?”

“It is true that you tend to be in careful observation of manners and propriety,” she states. “However, you may have a _tendency_ to do something and be capable of _deviating_ from that tendency. There are certain emotions that extend beyond what can be controlled or predicted and I would suggest that Will Graham makes you feel things you do not know how to reconcile.”

He remains silent. He knows, ostensibly, his connection with Will is ridiculous and fanciful. They whisper quotes from articles and book chapters to each other like poetry. They trade barbs like compliments and treat compliments like forbidden fruit. Digging too deep in one results in exhumation at the others’ hands. Skeletons in a closet are treated to an archeologist’s curiosity.

“You spend a lot of time building walls, Hannibal. It’s natural to want to see if someone is clever enough to climb over them,” she validates. “However, if you find yourself wanting to take a step forward, you must take two steps back.”

“You want me to step away from Will,” he summarizes, failing to keep the displeasure from bleeding into his tone.

Bedelia eyes him unforgivingly as she insists, “I’m speaking to you as your colleague: Whatever you’re doing with Will Graham, _stop_.”

“I am confident in my ability to help Will,” he insists intractably.

“Even the very best educators have an inherent limitation to their professional abilities. You may find that difficult to accept.”

“You’re right. It is,” he agrees. It is so difficult to accept that it nears on impossible. He has prided himself on being one of the very best educators. He is successful professor, a sought after advisor, and a prolific researcher. For all that others may consider him lacking in other areas, he has undeniably excelled in his profession.

“You have to maintain boundaries, Hannibal.”

“When the pressures of my personal and professional relationships with Will grow too great, I assure you, I’ll find a way to relieve them.”

\---

Dr. Du Maurier lingers in the waiting room doorway.

The novelty sets Will on edge. She doesn’t usually _linger_. Usually, when the clinic closes for its established hours, she gives Dr. Lecter a brief greeting quite quickly followed by a short goodbye. Today she _lingers_. She says hello to Anthony as he comes to pick up his client, they exchange small, polite smiles, and, after Anthony has escorted his client out, she perches herself on the arm of the couch kitty-corner to Will. Will, for his part, tries his best not to notice her. He locks the computer at the desk, makes sure all files are stored properly, stands up, tucks in his chair. He does everything that might arguably keep his attention.

“I’ve heard so much about you, I feel I almost know you,” Dr. Du Maurier observes, breathy but considered. It matches her delicate sophistication, somehow seeming fragile and intangible. Her scent evokes macerated flower petals and bitter almonds and her dress is fitted, unfussy, and wrinkleless. She is a testament to the fact that, while Betas are often overlooked, they should not be underestimated.

Will’s not sure what it is about her that raises his hackles. What he’s seen and heard so far has created the image of a great professor and perfectly lovely person. At a distance, he might even appreciate her in some of the ways he appreciates Dr. Lecter. But, up close, her keen attention puts him on edge and he resents the feeling of someone whittling away at him – even when he knows it comes with the promise of a bandage, perhaps even _more_ so because of it.

“You don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” she agrees easily, like she’d known he was going to say that. “I wanted to meet you.”

He fidgets and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose to their proper place. With the movement, he catches a whiff of his cologne in his sleeve. As the bite of the cologne covers Dr. Du Maurier’s scent, he tersely asks, “Why?”

The perfect loops of her blonde hair barely move as she tips her head. Her eyes are so sharp and her voice is so soft as she asks, “What do you think about Dr. Lecter?”

“He has been very instructive,” he replies plainly.

“Dr. Lecter’s instructional skills are a credit to him as an educator. Student experience him as educator and education: the ultimate test of their assessment and diagnostic skill sets.”

Will wrinkles his nose in distaste and sardonically replies, “Something I’m sure Dr. Lecter finds crude.”

He has earned a smile as she quips, “It would not require a penchant for empathy to come to that conclusion.”

“I have no illusions about my ability to diagnose anyone, let alone Dr. Lecter.”

“Do you know what the purpose of a diagnosis is?”

“Categorization: make a box, give it a label. Better the devil you know.”

“Some clients find it validating, something to gather around, find community in; others view it as a condemnation, their responses and reactions being cast as _‘exaggerated’_ and _‘dysfunctional,’”_ she explains meaningfully. “Some clients have difficulty understanding themselves outside of their diagnoses; others reject their diagnoses all together.” 

“You think Dr. Lecter is in denial.”

“Dr. Lecter is complacent,” she corrects. “He can get lost in self-congratulation at his own exquisite taste and cunning.”

“You’d rather he be compliant.”

“I have expressed to Dr. Lecter that his friendship with you may be inappropriate,” she discloses, a secret confidence spoken in open air. The dim lights of the room and whirring of sound machines almost deepen the breach.

“Is this conversation not _inappropriate_?” he counters. “Conspiring with a student to regulate _your_ colleague?”

Dr. Du Maurier doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch or wince, doesn’t appear apologetic or considerate. She is exactly as she has been this whole time. Nothing is different from what she could account for. Her tone remains gentle but firm, as she explains, "Dr. Lecter should not function as an agent of friendship for someone who is disconnected from the concept _as_ someone who is disconnected from the concept."

Will thinks of a young boy orphaned and a young boy abandoned, grown up to adults. They sit around a desk in the near dark and bond over stories of broken families and the havoc they wreak. Boys from broken families who grew up and discuss what life is like for people like Dr. Du Maurier, who seem to see things so differently, so clearly.

“How does someone connect with the concept of friendship if not through friendship?” Will asks incredulously. “You’re a psychologist, Dr. Du Maurier, isn’t our sense of self a consequence of social ties?”

“Some consequences are graver than others. Not all connections are equal. One should not connect just for connection’s sake,” she insists. Her tone is so _motherly_ that is grates at his nerves.

“I appreciate your _concern_ , but I can take care of myself.”

“I wonder if, just sometimes, it might have been a little hard for you to be so alone with yourself. And if, just sometimes, you might have wished you weren’t so alone,” Dr. Du Maurier expresses with a slight smile, not seeming to need to wonder at all. “I wonder if it may comfort you to know that I am convinced Dr. Lecter does what he honestly believes is best for you.”

Will flinches, feeling trapped between the desk and the door, desperate for the quiet safety of the room behind the mirrors. He longs to be on the other side watching as someone else describes just what can happen when someone does what they believe is best for another person.

“That is no comfort at all.”

\---

Dr. Crawford’s office seems to be much like him: efficient, no frills, serious business. It isn’t meant to be exciting. It’s meant to work. Will eyes the organized piles of papers and folders on the desk and covering the nearby table, the diplomas framed and lining the walls. With his classes, assignments, reading with Dr. Lecter, and clinic duties, he hardly feels like he has time for this, but he knows it doesn’t much matter. From the moment he met Dr. Crawford, Will could tell he is used to people making time for him.

“How are you doing, Will?” Dr. Crawford asks, his expression and tone feigning curiosity. Dr. Crawford’s scent is strong, unrelenting, smells of ash, metal, and amber. It is not the scent of someone uncertain. He smells of pride and self-satisfaction. 

“Fine.”

Dr. Crawford’s expression remains mostly unchanged, but there is a twinge of annoyance showing in his eyes. “Your _Summer Experience_ is nearly over,” he reminds Will unnecessarily. “In just a few short weeks, you’ll be leaving the adjustment period and entering the true college experience.”

“Looking forward to it,” he responds with a tight smile.

“As Pack Alpha, I am meant to act as your foundation, a sense of stability,” he tells Will, another unnecessary reminder. “I can only do that if you _let me_.”

“Everything is great, Dr. Crawford,” he replies. It helps that it is true.

The twinge of annoyance spreads, downturning Dr. Crawford’s eyebrows and lips in an expression of skepticism and clouding the air with the burning scent. Will has to look away as Dr. Crawford’s eyes scan him for information. He tries not to twitch even though he’s not exactly sure what he wants to conceal.

“Is Freddie Lounds still giving you trouble?” Dr. Crawford asks after enough analysis.

“She has a funny knack for _coincidentally_ being in the same places I am,” Will sighs.

“She has been spoken to,” Dr. Crawford reassures, as if that means anything at all.

“Freddie Lounds is unfazed by simply _being spoken to_.”

Will thinks of Freddie outside his dorm building, interviewing those who live on his hall, and Freddie by the dining hall, not only undeterred by their last encounter there, but emboldened instead. She asks him questions as he walks by and makes wild statements about him to others within his earshot to see what might come of it, whether it be from his response or someone else’s.

“You keep your head down,” Dr. Crawford scolds. “Freddie is not the only one who needs to consider Codes of Conduct.”

Dr. Crawford must have heard about the time when Will snapped back at one of Freddie’s particularly incendiary comments. Maybe Dr. Crawford read the article Freddie wrote quoting the choice words Will had used. Maybe administrators like gossip just as much as undergrads apparently do.

“I’d be happy never to have contact with her again,” Will insists. “She’s the one making that difficult.”

“Focus on your studies. That’s what you’re here for.”

“I’m doing fine in my classes. I’m doing my reading, writing, and arithmetic. I’m sure the professors have told you as much.”

Dr. Crawford looks at him firmly, leans forward on his elbows against the desk, and crosses his hands together. “They tell me that you do only so much work as you need to do. That you read books during class that have nothing to do with the course. That you are a shadow in any classroom – there, but not present. That during study sessions, you are nowhere to be found.”

“I do fine on my assignments. I learn the content.”

Dr. Crawford sighs and works his jaw before stating, “I’d like to discuss your Fall course schedule.”

“I’m taking psychology classes and a couple gen eds,” Will replies as he eyes Dr. Crawford with a hefty dose of suspicion.

“Gen eds can be a good way to explore your interests,” Dr. Crawford starts meaningfully.

“I know what my interests are,” he cuts short. He hopes futilely that they won’t have to have this conversation every time they have a meeting. The idea of being harangued every semester sounds redundant.

“I’m not your father, Will,” Dr. Crawford continues, undeterred. “I’m not going to tell you ought to do.”

“Seems like that’s _exactly_ what you’re going to do.”

“I am your _advisor,_ your _Pack Alpha_. You only have four years to learn as much as you can. It would be a shame not to make the most of it.”

“ _The most of it_ ,” Will echoes scornfully. “By whose definition is that?”

“I would hope _common sense_. You can do things no one else can. You can _save lives_.”

Will thinks of the sight of Dr. Lecter sliding off a flimsy pair of headphones, the sound of a knock at the door. He remembers the way Dr. Lecter had slipped in mid-session and recalls the neutral, clinical benevolence in his expression during a discussion of death and the means and manners of dying. He thinks of the client’s return for their next appointment and how, in their session, they swore to an absence of darker thoughts since they’d left the hospital. He remembers how others, including Alana, worried and fretted over whether these words could be trusted. He recalls how he and Dr. Lecter looked at each other during group supervision and saw in each other’s eyes an unspoken agreement that there was no need to worry.

Will remembers all of this and says, “There is more than one way to save a life.”

\---

As Will knocks on the door to Dr. Lecter’s office, he knows there is a chance that Dr. Lecter will consider his arrival rude. It wasn’t planned ahead – unspoken or otherwise – and it isn’t Dr. Lecter’s office hours. Will simply had left his meeting with Dr. Crawford and decided a visit to Dr. Lecter sounded more appealing than attending a study session.

But when Dr. Lecter calls _“Come in”_ and Will opens the door, he is greeted not with displeasure, but with an expression that is equal parts surprised and pleased. Dr. Lecter makes no move to tidy the papers, drawings, and pencils from the desk to make room for him. He simply paid them no attention at all. He is singularly focused. 

“Should I institute a twenty-four hour cancellation policy for dinner as well?” Dr. Lecter asks, not unkindly.

It may be the first they’ve spoken of having a routine. After the very first offer of dinner, every subsequent meal has hidden by coincidence and convenience. Will happens to dawdle and Dr. Lecter just so happens to have food to spare. Pay no mind to the meal’s equal division into two servings or that, by now, Alana has given Will permission to leave early if he needs to.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter. I wasn’t feeling well,” he replies, both true and untrue. He is sorry and, in a way, he hadn’t been feeling well. He’d been sickened, but not by anything physical. 

All seems forgiven as Dr. Lecter looks at him generously and amiably, and declares, “Luckily for you, it could keep another day.”

Dr. Lecter tidies his desk, placing drawings and supplies in a drawer, and, as has become habit, Dr. Lecter provides two containers. As Will watches silently, Dr. Lecter places one container in front of each of them along with a set of utensils and napkins.

“To what do I owe the unorthodox visit?” Dr. Lecter asks once everything is settled, punctuated by the pop of the container lid.

Will ignores his food for the moment, sighs, and rubs at his forehead in frustration as he explains, “Dr. Crawford is trying to convince me to take Criminal Justice courses, enticing me with classes on _deviant behavior_ and _psychobiological perspectives_.”

Dr. Lecter’s eyes tip up from his meal and connect with Will’s as he asks, “Have you reconsidered?”

“He’s trying to tempt me with classes we both know I won’t be able to take for a couple years. No doubt conveniently concealing the numerous prerequisites until _after_ he knows I’ve been convinced.”

“As I’m certain Dr. Crawford will emphasize, many prerequisites will overlap with psychology courses. You may not need to make many sacrifices.”

He looks sharply at Dr. Lecter, eyes the unruffled veneer with a perfectly pressed suit, appropriately poised posture, and scent as clean and composed as ever. “Are you trying to get rid of me now?”

“Dr. Crawford and I have a mutual appreciation for potential and a mutual distaste for when it’s wasted.”

“A career in psychology would be a waste of my potential?” he questions, incredulously. “An odd thing for a psychologist to say.”

“You have potential in a variety of fields. It becomes a question of which field _maximally_ capitalizes on your potential.”

“Regardless of what I want?”

“Ultimately, you will make the decision. Dr. Crawford wants you to have all the information to do so. You may find that you like Criminal Justice,” he suggests, as if that would be an interesting possibility.

“Unlikely.”

“I have every confidence you will make the right choice.”

Will clicks his tongue at a flair of annoyance, a knee-jerk response. The words _common sense_ ring in his ears as he laments, “If you agree with Dr. Crawford, the right choice for me may be the wrong choice for a lot of other people.”

“Whether it’s healing you hope to facilitate or pain you hope to prevent, the quantity and efficacy may be more or less equal. It may become a question of sustainability.”

“Sustainability?”

Dr. Lecter places his utensils together side by side in his container and directs his full attention once more. He draws himself back into a particularly academic posture as he instructs, “Criminal Justice work will use your capacity for insight to catch killers and keep them from hurting others. This work will encourage you to mirror the killers you hunt as much as possible, get as deep into their minds as you can in pursuit of the hidden linchpin. Alternatively, a career in psychology will use your capacity for insight in pursuit of the hidden key that unlocks just the right door. Psychological work would encourage you to do this work _specifically_ by keeping yourself from becoming too emmeshed.”

“You make it sound like picking superpowers.”

“Simply a matter of training,” Dr. Lecter corrects. “You have the skills. You only need guidance in their application. Counseling can train you to listen to what is said, understand it in broader contexts, and select the response that best orients towards your treatment goal and do so without distraction by any single element over another. You can learn to do all this and then leave it in the room.” 

Will squints his eyes in suspicion as he asks, “As you listen to me, are you thinking in multiple tracks, deciding the best response that orients towards your goal?”

“ _Identity versus Role Confusion_ ,” Dr. Lecter proclaims as explanation. “You are nearing the end of the phase in life when you find your place in the world. I should not contribute to the confusion.”

“And what comes next?” he asks, on tenterhooks. “After identity?”

“ _Intimacy versus Isolation_.”

They both hold bated breaths just then. Will can tell. He can feel the stillness of the air, not tense or unbearable, but present. He can feel the air held hostage in Dr. Lecter’s chest as he feels it trapped in his own. It is the reassuring warmth in Dr. Lecter’s eyes that provides some relief.

“Dr. Crawford asked me if I would be staying on with the lab for the rest of the year,” Will mentions as he finally opens his own container of food. He eyes the collection of entrée and side dish within, as appealing in color and shape as he knows they will be in taste. He grasps his own utensils in hand as he says, “He asked me if I thought we were a good match and was surprised when I said yes.”

Dr. Lecter sighs and sits deeper into his chair, rubbing at his chin with contemplative fingers as he explains, “I suspect that there may be a part of Dr. Crawford that hopes you are driven away from clinical psychology and hopes I might serve as the driving force.”

“Is there precedent?”

Dr. Lecter hums in confirmation. “Miriam Lass. Very accomplished, quick witted, she spent her _Summer Experience_ in my lab and subsequently decided it was not a good fit. Dr. Crawford tells me she hopes to pursue a doctorate in Criminology.”

“Did you make her dinner?” he asks, plucking from the container in front of him a piece of watermelon topped with a prosciutto rose. He finds himself feeling glad that his wavering did not cause it to wilt overnight. He also finds he experiences a panging sensation in his chest at the idea that he might not be the only person to be presented such a gift.

The pang softens with the soft look on Dr. Lecter’s face, the lines of his face smoothing as he reassures, “No. I did not.”

Will can feel a smile stretch across his face and warmth at his cheeks. He places the melon and rose in his mouth and chews appreciatively. His smile reemerges when he’s done and he teases, “Was it Frederick’s fault?”

“The fault was mine,” he admits seriously and Will almost regrets asking, wishing again for the rare softness. “She became overwhelmed by what I asked of her – my questions, critiques, and corrections – and decided to return to Dr. Crawford’s mentorship.”

“It did not disappoint you to let her go.”

“It was her choice and not my place to hold a grudge,” he replies simply.

Will pauses in his eating. He eyes Dr. Lecter once more. This time, his eyes catch on Dr. Lecter’s hands, the smooth elegance of them even in the mundane movement of eating, and he feels the urge to know what they feel like. It is a familiar urge, one that he has thought of in the dead of night before he falls asleep, just as he has thought of the feel of Dr. Lecter’s lips or what it might be like to run his fingers through Dr. Lecter’s hair.

As perceptive as he is, it does not take long for Dr. Lecter to take notice. Will leans into the eye contact rather than away and declares, “I am not Miriam Lass. _Pack Alpha_ or not, I am not someone Dr. Crawford can make decisions for.”

“Dr. Crawford likely believes he is doing what is in your best interest.”

“Dr. Du Maurier spoke of my best interests as well,” he remarks and, if Dr. Lecter is surprised to hear of it, he doesn’t show it. 

“You have many people invested in your success.”

“They can _invest_ , but I make my own choices,” Will insists fiercely. “I will be the one to decide if I stay or go.”

Dr. Lecter’s eyes seem to glint in the soft light as he says, “Yes, you will.”

\---

When Hannibal next sees Will, his face is bathed in the soft light that comes through a one-way mirror. His chin is perched in fascination on top of clasped hands as he leans against the table on his elbows. His face seems even softer and younger in the warm glow and it sends a pang through his chest. The headphones he wears squashes his hair a bit, but it nonetheless springs out in unruly curls to frame his face.

Will flits his eyes to him for just a fraction of a second before he fixes them back on the scene in front of him. “He’s trying too hard,” he whispers, voice toned with complete certainty.

Hannibal takes a seat beside Will and picks up his own set of headphones. He listens to Frederick’s frustrated tone and the way he emphasizes his point of view with such rigid determination. He also notices how the client sits with her arms crossed and body language tilted as far away as she possibly can in a very small room.

“Yes he is,” Hannibal sighs. He will have to be more direct in his supervision of Frederick, unfortunately. Hannibal had thought that relegating Frederick to treatment as usual would account for his limitations. However, _treatment as usual_ is meant to account for the natural benefits of a healing relationship, which requires the existence of a _healing_ relationship. If all else fails, the client will be offered the manualized treatment after the study is complete. Maybe he will ask Alana to do it.

“He’s too impatient. He gets frustrated too easily,” Will observes. “She’s not holding out on him simply because she wants to. She learned to hold things in until he’s earned it. The more he tries to force it, the less he will have earned it and the more she will hold in.”

Hannibal feels himself looking in amusement at the curious thing beside him and asks, “What would you do then, if you were in Frederick’s place?”

“I would validate her concerns and explore the resistance. I would tell her that I understood her concerns and ask what would need to change to help her to feel better able to engage.”

“Tell me how you know this.”

Will looks at him strangely – his brow is tilted in confused curiosity. Hannibal understands. The squint of Will’s eyes and tilt of his mouth convey how unnecessary it should be for Will to explain himself aloud. Hannibal has always been happy to display his understanding, his self-reliant insight. He has always been happy to demonstrate how much he understood through his own analysis and deduction.

Will grants him this indulgence. His expression smooths and he eyes slip closed as he explains, “Sometimes, when I close my eyes, everything falls away. And when it all falls away, all that remains is understanding.”

Neither of them look at the window in front of them. They both listen to the conversation through their headphones – the tone of the session unfortunately unchanged. They can hear Frederick’s stern voice insisting on compliance and the heavy silence surrounding the client’s clipped response and throughout Will keeps his eyes closed. Will’s posture has straightened from its usual casual slump. The only disruption to his body’s rigid stillness comes from the pull in and out of deep breaths.

They stay this way – Will with his eyes closed, Hannibal watching Will – for a few, seemingly endless moments. It is tense, but not anxiously so. Hannibal feels himself nearly in suspense even when, from the outside, the scene might seem relatively dull. He waits in anticipation, even in the absence of knowing what he anticipates will come and hopes Will is too focused elsewhere to notice him.

“I spent so much time in the car with my dad growing up,” Will recalls, his tone even, a story rarely told, but frequently rehearsed. “I’d put my face against the window and look up at the streetlights as they flashed by. I’d look at the people passing by and think about what they were doing and why they were doing it and what they were thinking. Sometimes, the car would slow and the window would be cracked open and I would catch the scent of them. I could _smell_ the exhaustion wafting off the mom whose toddler won’t behave and the sadness drifting off the man crying at the street corner. I could _feel_ it sink into my bones, lingering like a ghost haunting a home. When I close my eyes, I think of those car rides and the lights whizzing by and I see those ghosts residing in others as I see them inside me.”

Hannibal’s chest has felt overcome with a persistent ache since last night, since he’d realized Will would not be joining him for dinner as expected. The ache only turned deeper as there seemed to be many forces intent on reminding him of the tenuousness of his connection with Will. However, for every reminder, Will also provides him one of his own – a solidifier, an analgesic. This moment is no different in this way and, in other ways, this moment is entirely singular.

As the sensation in his chest turns from a hollow ache to a blooming fullness, Hannibal finds himself feeling _uncertain_. He finds himself feeling those uncontrollable, unpredictable emotions as Bedelia foretold. Hannibal wonders if Will can smell it on him as Will shifts his posture tensely and rubs at his nose _too_ casually.

“I know it’s strange,” Will comments with a tense blink of his eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” he assures Will honestly. He dares to place a tentative hand on Will’s shoulder as he soothes, “You have been alone because you are unique.”

The smile on Will’s lips mirrors the shine in his eyes and the words seem to come so easily to him as he reassures in turn, “You’re as alone as I am. And we are both alone without each other.”

\---

Will watches Dr. Lecter lean down to switch off the last of the sound machines. It creates a sudden eerily silence in his wake. Dr. Lecter has removed his jacket, set aside his vest, and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt to expose the muscle and veins winding his forearms. It isn’t much, but by Dr. Lecter’s standards, this is absolutely _unmannerly_ , almost _indecent_. In this stripped down version of Dr. Lecter, he can see the satisfaction and he can smell the faintest softening of his scent, a warming like mulled wine.

“You really love this work, don’t you?” he observes from his seat on the waiting room couch. While he waits for dinner, he has been entering the survey data into the spreadsheet and organizing the papers back into the proper corresponding files. He has managed to slip the last of the papers into the proper folders with a little time to spare.

“I wouldn’t think that would surprise you. I seem to recall you pointing out something to that effect the first time we met,” Hannibal remarks with a quirk of his lips.

“Not the research,” Will clarifies. “The therapy. ”

Dr. Lecter gives a slight smile but there is sadness in his eyes as he sits next to him on the couch, perched carefully with one leg crossed over the other as usual. “Yes, I do,” he confesses.

Will absorbs the tone of his voice, the vision of his gentler demeanor, and the trace of calm, warmth in his scent. He sets the folders aside, turns in his seat, and tips his body towards Dr. Lecter as he curiously remarks, “When we discussed career decisions, you never said how you made yours. Did you ever think about becoming a therapist instead?”

Dr. Lecter nods thoughtfully. “I did a clinical practicum when I was pursuing my doctorate and loved the work. When the practicum was over, I was back to being a doctoral student at a research institution where my faculty made it clear to me that dabbling in the therapy side of things was all fine and good in the name of being well-rounded, but not viable for a long term career.”

Will hums in contemplative interest. He notes the faint hints that underlie the constructed display as he scans over Dr. Lecter’s face. He takes in the slight furrow of his brow and sees the frustration. He notices his downcast eyes and the yearning revealed in the distant gaze. His eyes linger on the way his lips hold a disappointed pout to them.

Will’s lingering turns to longing that simmers inside him and compels him to move in closer. In closing the distance, the air thrums. Dr. Lecter seems to feel it too as he turns his eyes to no longer gaze into far-off nostalgia and what could have been and instead starts to take note of what could be now. 

“What other dreams do you have locked away in that mind of yours?” Will asks softly with a smile. He doesn’t wait for a response – as it isn’t needed – and closes the gap between them, placing his lips against Dr. Lecter’s. He can feel the surprise in the press of their lips until the pout shifts to something more slack. He takes the slack as encouragement and tilts to press more firmly. 

“ _Will_ ,” Dr. Lecter breathes as he pulls away. 

He takes in the view of the surprise he’d felt against his lips, sees the way it shines in Dr. Lecter’s eyes and holds itself in the way Dr. Lecter holds himself frozen. Will doesn’t give himself a chance to second-guess and leans in again with a hand placed on the side of Dr. Lecter’s face to pull him tighter, closer and presses their lips together again. He moves his body in even closer to better align them until they are pressed together, connected from their knees to their lips.

Dr. Lecter sighs another “ _Will_ ,” which seems to be both an admonishment and an encouragement. 

“Everything matches so _carefully_. It’s an illusion. The perfection is its flaw,” Will whispers into the charged air. He holds his place with his hand still cupped around the side of his professor’s face and his thumb stroking at the prominent cheekbone. “Would it hurt you to be a little disorderly?”

Dr. Lecter blinks at him once, twice, three times and murmurs, “Will it hurt you?”

Will smirks. He isn’t ashamed of his voice’s pleased lilt as he replies, “Not at all.”

With his hand still anchored to Dr. Lecter’s cheek, Will pulls them back together again and moves himself unabashed onto Dr. Lecter’s lap. His professor shifts his legs easily from their crossed position and spreads them slightly to welcome the press of Will’s ass more firmly against his lap. Will slips his hand down from its hold and used both hands grasp at his professor’s wrists and guide his hands around his waist.

He moans against Dr. Lecter’s mouth when his professor grips him firmly, confidently, _finally_ with those hands Will has admired dinner after dinner, day after day. He inhales deeply and shamelessly, scenting the arousal between the two of them with its warmth and depth and immoderation and he grinds his ass down, pleased to feel both the slick that pours from him and the unmistakable bulge pushes back. The rub of his clothes against him is both chafing and pleasing and he craves more.

In a rush, he pushes himself off Dr. Lecter’s lap. Will stands before him, shivering at the heat in Dr. Lecter’s gaze as he studies him. Will drinks in the _disarray_ of his Dr. Lecter with his tie loose and breaths coming in gasps and he feels greedy. Will quickly unbuckles his belt, unbuttons and unzips his pants, unties his shoes. As he removes his clothes from the waist down, Dr. Lecter doesn’t move a muscle but for his heaving chest. Will doesn’t mind. He wants Dr. Lecter undone by his hands anyway. He moves back to his place on Dr. Lecter’s lap and his hands attend to his professor’s belt, button, and zipper just as he had his own.

They groan together as he slips his hand beneath waistbands to grip at hot, smooth flesh. He feels the heavy puffs of Dr. Lecter’s breath against his cheek as he pulls the Alpha’s cock free from his clothes. His hole pulses and drips and _gushes_ at the feel and sight of it. He slides his hand gently from base to tip first and then grips his hand tighter on the way back down. As he slips his other hand to where he’s soaked with slick and sensitive, he feels hands grip around his waist again, just as Will had guided them before, and bunch the fabric of his shirt in their grip.

A moans is pulled from his throat as he rubs his fingers around his hole, gathering slick in order to smooth the way for one finger and then two. He rubs his clit in between his fingers and with the heel of his hand as he readies himself. When he can comfortably pump three fingers in and out, his slick hand trades places with his dry one as he uses his own slick as lubricant for his strokes. When he moves forward and positions his hole above Dr. Lecter’s cock, he feels just as much he hears the professor groan into his shoulder.

“ _Will_ ,” he grunts, as he uses his grip on Will’s waist to hold him in place, “is there anything I shouldn’t do?”

Will darts his eyes to lock their gaze together and, in a moment of sober clarity, whispers, “Just don’t bite me.”

He can see emotions flicker across his professor’s eyes, though he finds himself at an unfamiliar loss to identify them. It was too quick and the concealment of emotions too well-practiced and Will was too distracted to tell what it all meant. However, he has become practiced in identifying the warmth as he receives a little nod in confirmation. Will nods back and gives his own little smile in return before he kisses Dr. Lecter again, hot and intent and insistent.

The kiss turns into a gasp as he sinks himself down and feels his hole opened and filled. He feels lips trail down his jaw and to his throat. He shivers as he seats himself fully on his professor’s lap, with his dick pressed as deep as it can go, filling him completely, and the lips turn from kissing to harshly sucking at his neck. Will wraps his arms around the strong line of Dr. Lecter’s shoulder and tangles his hand in Dr. Lecter’s usually perfectly styled hair. His fingers grasp at hair slightly crunchy with gel as he starts to roll his hips. He moans at each harsh suck against his throat and the bruise he knows will be left behind. When it comes to biting, it’s not the mark he objects to.

Will finds his pace, angle, and rhythm and it wis _so good_ and _so close_ to what he needs. His head swims with every sensation and he tightly closes his eyes and tries to remember to breathe to keep from feeling dizzy from it all. A gasp is wrenched from his throat as his fingers bump against his swollen clit, rubbing rough, determined circles up and around it. He can feel his hole flutter and clench as his pleasure builds. With every press of his hips downwards, he can feel his professor’s knot swelling. He can feel how it stretches his hole on the way in and out and burns a little more each time, a promise that soon it will swell past a point of no return.

A rub of his fingers against his clit, the dull pain of the skin of his throat bruising in harsh pulls of a hot mouth, usually meticulous hair mussed in the grip of his hand. He slams his hips one last time to seat himself fully in his professor’s lap and the final swell of Dr. Lecter’s knot ties them together makes his pleasure burst under his skin and swoop through his body and the spill of his professor inside him only fills him further. His hole gives several final squeezes to pull the last few gushes as they shudder together. 

Will slumps his body forward and presses their thumping chests together. He can feel the haggard breaths rattle both their chests and the sweat clinging to their skin. His forehead is tacky and sweaty where he tucks his head into his professor’s neck and his grip loosens but doesn’t release the soft strands between his fingers.

Time passes and he calms the breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins. It takes a while, before his mind can fully click back online, when he is no longer consumed by his senses and his thoughts piece themselves together.

“How am I supposed to catch the bus now?” Will teases.

Will feels the rumble in Dr. Lecter’s chest that turns into a laugh. As Will laughs too, he can feel the vibrations ricochet off each other. It fills their chests and clatters against their ribs and it feels as absurd as it does _right_.

As it dies down, Dr. Lecter whispers reassuringly in his ear, “I’ll drive you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it took me to update. I always hope the length of the update makes up for the length of time it takes to get it done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put a cw for sex stuff last chapter. It's probably best to assume that applies more or less to every chapter from here on. I don't know 100% for sure that this is the case, but seems like a possibility.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car, Will is bathed in a soft light of another sort. Rather than the dark of lamps in an office or the stark harshness of florescent lighting, moonlight and street lamps illuminate his face. Hannibal should be focusing on his driving. He tries not to let himself stare. It is exceedingly difficult though to keep himself from looking when he imagines he can see glimpses of Will’s thoughts converging in the passing flashes of yellowy light from street lamps.

At a stoplight, he watches Will lean his head against the window and look passively outside. He wants to run his fingers through Will’s long, curly hair and tangle himself into it, woven together from the roots to the ends that curl low against the nape of his neck. He wants to stroke his fingers down the smooth softness of Will’s cheeks and press his thumbs into the bruises decorating Will’s throat.

His teeth felt so sharp and his throat so hollow as he’d sucked each dark purple bruise onto Will’s skin. Even though he’d known it was unreasonable and ill-timed, the desire remained to sink his teeth into the gland nestled just close enough to the surface. He could also identify that the desire for everything that came with such an act was just as strong and just as dangerous. Feelings of domesticity are perhaps just as forbidden as the ferocity, maybe more. 

He’s lucky Will hadn’t been in heat. That would have challenged even Hannibal’s typically iron-clad sense of control.

Alpha and Omega have adapted over time – evolution transforming the physiological, psychological, and sociocultural. It is most prominently exemplified in the existence of Betas, but can also be clearly observed in the subtle softening of baser instincts and traits across generations. Bonding and mating, as well as heats and ruts, have persevered, but Will’s scenting capabilities exemplify a relic from the past. Scenting, once used to identify individuals, alliances, and territories, has largely faded to pheromone-related compatibility and the ability to recognize family, nest, and home.

However, just as childhood wounds are buried until intimacy surfaces them, artifacts of evolution emerge with prolonged closeness and affection. Hannibal proving he could provide in the form of regular, nutritious meals and his need to mark even if just in bruises are but two examples of bygone instincts transmuted to the present circumstances. A multitude of evolutionary changes and adaptations have led them to this moment and the many moments that will follow.

Making the last turn that will bring them outside Will’s dorm building, Hannibal thinks of a quote from the first book he loaned Will:

“ _Curious twists of development can lead to an outcome as bizarre as that of a goose courting a dog-kennel.”_

\---

Will sits hidden away in the back corner of the cafeteria, doing his best to avoid anything that could be described as a crowd, as he does this nearly every morning at breakfast. He picks up a forkful of cafeteria scrambled eggs in one hand while the other clicks away at his laptop’s keyboard. As reluctant as he is to turn his head and break focus, the eggs barely makes it to his mouth. Food has already slipped off his fork and nearly fallen on his keyboard a time or two. His eyes pour over the file he’s opened. There is a notebook and pen nearby for Will to take notes, if he can manage to juggle it all.

“Another thing about Willard Wigan,” a voice cuts in. “He had a lonely childhood. He used his tiny sculptures as an escape.”

Will blinks absently as he looks up from the computer screen and finds Beverly, dressed for the end of summer in shorts and a t-shirt with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her scent is summery too: sweetened citrus and freshly mown grass.

“Who’s Willard Wigan?” he asks in confusion.

Beverly simply laughs as she takes a seat next to him. When he keeps his brow furrowed and maintains his frown, she gives an indulgent shake of her head – _never mind, doesn’t matter_.

“I never see you anymore,” she remarks instead and the scent of freshly mown grass takes on a whiff of muddy damper.

“Dr. Lecter keeps me busy. I have papers to read and the study and classes,” he says, a half-excuse, half-apology. He has missed Beverly lately and knows that’s his own fault.

Beverly looks at him warmly with her knowing eyes, not easily fooled. She flicks her eyes pointedly down from Will’s face and back up again.

“Doesn’t seem to be all work and no play,” she observes and he knows without her having to say that she means the bruises on his neck. He doesn’t mind. He would have buttoned his shirt to the top button if he’d wanted to try to hide them. 

“There’s been some play,” he agrees with a smirk.

Beverly smirks too and reaches a hand to pull Will’s collar away and expose more of the purple marks decorating around the side of his neck. “This isn’t a not-so-dry run for a bond, is it?”

Will scoffs, “Can you imagine me with a bond?”

“Maybe,” she replies. “Maybe not.”

“I probably wouldn’t handle a bond well and wouldn’t expect anyone to handle me not handling it,” he says. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a well-known truth. He knows better than to bond and has known better for as long as he can remember.

Beverly hums. She knows how to fight her battles and instead asks, “Who is the lucky suitor?”

“Why should I kiss and tell?” 

“Come on, Will. You’re no wilting daisy,” she states plainly. “If you can’t count on me, who can you count on.”

Will sighs. He knows she is right. Ultimately, Beverly would be the person with the fewest conflicts in this situation. “It’s Dr. Lecter,” he confesses, happy again that he’s hidden himself away from others.

Beverly smiles mischievously. “I should have known you’d be one of those _Hot for Teacher_ types,” she teases.

“I’m not.”

“Your neck says otherwise.”

Will laughs, but follows it with a warning, “Don’t get too excited.”

“Do you think it will be a one-time thing?” she asks, curiously.

Will shrugs his shoulders and bluntly answers, “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answers honestly.

Beverly seems to sense another fight that would be best saved for another time. She presses Will’s laptop closed and pushes away from the table. “Come and hang out with me, while you decide,” she suggests kindly.

Will smiles, tucks his computer back into his bag, scoops one last bite of breakfast into his mouth, and stands to join her. “Alright,” he agrees.

\---

Hannibal sits one leg crossed over the other in one of the cushier chairs that comprise the circle for group supervision. He listens to Frederick describe his struggles, lamenting his frustrations with the client Hannibal and Will had observed. Hannibal holds in a sigh. Frederick has a tendency to seem to want to staff every client he has during each and every group supervision, always hungry for everyone else’s perspectives and, in particular, Hannibal’s perspective.

“What function does it serve, the frustration you feel?” he asks Frederick, in the place of the definitive answer he clearly wants.

“To push me away,” Frederick replies quickly and eagerly.

“Partially correct, but rather imprecise,” he critiques. 

“Schopenhauer’s parable,” Anthony interjects knowingly. “Porcupines huddle together in the winter, driven too and away from each other by cold and the pricks of their quills – caught between two evils. In humans, the two evils are the cold of isolation and the prickle of disagreeable qualities.”

“Clients engage in testing behaviors to determine if the therapist will respond in the familiar – and problematic – ways that others often have in the past,” Alana contributes. Naturally, she knows the readings and the treatment manual very well. “If Frederick feels that he is being pushed away, it is to see when he will give up on her.”

It is once again accurate to the text, but lacking partially in application. Hannibal parts his lips, words of correction and instruction clawing at the back of his teeth.

“She wants to know when your compassion will be exhausted,” Will says suddenly. It is so restrained it could be a whisper, but so certain that it could only truly be considered a declaration.

All eyes turn to Will, reclined as he is in his chair. His posture is not so much relaxed as it is _resigned_. This is not the first time Will has been the center of attention in this group, but it is the first time it is because he has spoken. His astute eyes have always slid from person to person, around and across the circle, absorbing and incorporating everything around him. Everything has been retained. This is the first time anything has emerged in response.

Will licks his lips, furrows his brow, and announces, “She exists awaiting the moment when compassion turns to anger. She will live in self-imposed isolation, only sustained by the slight satisfaction she feels when the abandonment proves her right. It’s a satisfaction that can make the pain palatable. It’s all she has.”

The words of correction that had been at the tip of Hannibal’s tongue turn instead to words of praise choked back into his throat.

“That’s great insight, Will,” Alana compliments genuinely, as Hannibal can count on her to do. She also predictably sends a covert look his way. Her lips pursing and eyes squinting serve almost as a warning, cautioning him not to put a damper on Will’s contribution – as if he could.

He turns his attention back to Frederick instead and pointedly asks him, “How will you make sure not to fail her test?”

Frederick sighs and gives a roll of his eyes as he concedes, “I will _manage_ my frustration.”

“She’ll know,” Will insists conclusively. “She’ll know you’re lying and, if you lie, she’ll know it’s just a matter of time.”

“You can’t be too polite to say,” Anthony agrees, addressing Frederick but with a quick conspiratorial wink in Will’s direction. “You have to name what is happening in the room. Trust will be a treasure hidden away. The only way to crack the lid may be to bash it open.”

“Once a client catches you in a lie, it will be that much harder for them to believe that subsequent perspectives you share could be true,” Hannibal confirms. “It will be exceedingly difficult to use a relationship plagued by distrust to convince an isolated client that others can be trusted.”

“So you all want me to tell her that she frustrates me,” Frederick summarizes skeptically. He looks between Hannibal and Alana in particular. He is likely wary of enacting any of the direct harshness he disapproves of in the former and confused that the latter would advocate for anything other than unflinching support.

“You tell her that there is understanding to be found in the frustration,” Hannibal clarifies. “Understanding offers hope in the form of honesty.”

“Being honest can open the door for an installation of hope, which is necessary for any successful therapy,” Alana adds obligingly. Frederick ought to know by now that Alana’s unflinching support can come in many forms, stubbornness and fieriness included. “We utilize insight and feedback to shed light on the circumstances and offer hope for changing them.”

Frederick appears to become resigned, realizing it may be best to give in when he’s been overruled – even if it’s just for now. Of course, when he applies these perspectives, he will give himself the congratulations.

The conversation moves on to discuss other clients – a client who claims not to remember his childhood and one who refuses to believe that his past could have had as significant of an impact as it clearly has. Hannibal sneaks glances at Will from time to time as he scans around the circle of clinicians. Although it seems Will has had his fill of contributing and doesn’t say another word, he remains attentive behind his passive expression. With a flick of her eyes, Alana carefully checks Will every so often as well and Hannibal wonders if she is just as curious as he is to find out what other gems lie hidden in Will.

\---

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” Will says from the doorway of Bedelia’s office. Even when standing upright, his posture remains resigned, not fully hunched over but slightly curled in at his shoulders. With the strap of his bag slung over his shoulder and glasses slightly askew, he is the picture of studiousness. Even if it is in need of ironing, his collared, long-sleeve shirt worn in the lasting heat of late summer gives the impression of someone who tends to be buttoned-up.

It all fits the picture of studiousness so well, except for the deep bruises along his throat. He imagines Will may see the bruises as a display of getting what he wants. Hannibal understands, he sees them that way too.

“Hello, Will,” he greets amiably. “Are we not on a first-name basis?”

Will looks down at the carpet at his feet and grips at the strap of his bag. He confesses almost absent-mindedly, “I wasn’t sure.”

He sits back into the desk chair, crosses one leg over the other, and folds his hands together over his knee. “How is it you’ve come to understand what happened last we saw each other?”

“It was,” Will starts, eyes searching through the air as if it will provide the perfect descriptor. “It was _intimate_.”

Hannibal hold his expression in place to conceal a smile as he asks, “How does that make you feel?”

“I haven’t decided exactly,” Will admits as he takes a few steps deeper into the room. He grips at the back of the chair he’s occupied during each of their dinners together. “This is an _abnormal_ situation.”

“There is no need to decide how to feel; you only need to identify it,” Hannibal reassures. “An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.”

Will nods passively but notably doesn’t provide any further information. Up-close, the light against Will’s face emphasizes both the softness in his features and the harshness in shadows carved by a furrowed brow and a frown.

Deciding to try a different approach, he asks instead, “Is it something you’re thinking of doing again?”

“What if I am?” Will asks, almost convincing as a hypothetical. He circles around the side of Hannibal’s side of the desk and he leans back against it lightly, bracing himself with his hands curled around the edge.

“Then, you should be quite pleased,” he avows sincerely, “I am.”

Will pets a hand smoothly down Hannibal’s lapel and Hannibal carefully, slowly stretches forward to remove Will’s glasses and place them gently aside, out of harm’s way. With his glasses out of the way, the look in Will’s eyes is unobscured. Hannibal is burned in the heat of it and cut by the sharpness. Will’s fingers slide from the edge of a button to the length of his tie and up to grip at the knot.

Hannibal feels himself drawn in easily; Will barely needs to pull. He leans forward as Will curves down and their lips meet in the middle, pressing together easily but cautiously. Hannibal places a hand just as easily, just as cautiously on Will’s thigh, first just one and then the other to mirror the action. 

They kiss ardently and slowly, exploring and embracing their whims as they arise. After some time, Will pulls just far enough away that their lips no longer touch but close enough that the air from a quiet laugh still ghosts over Hannibal’s skin.

“I think I discovered a truth about myself that night,” Will confesses with a touch of confidence.

A surge of affection washes over him and Hannibal cannot suppress his smile. “That doing bad things makes you feel good?”

Will hums in agreement and licks his lips. Hannibal tracks the movement with his eyes and tips back against the tension in the loop of the tie around his neck held firmly in Will’s grip. 

“Do you fantasize about me, Will?” he asks pensively as Will looms above him, powerful and unpredictable.

Will gives another lick of his lips and smirks as he answers, “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I’d rather show you,” Will counters.

Will releases his grip on the tie and returns both hands to their earlier position on the desk edge. He uses his braced grip to lift himself and slide back along the surface to seat himself with legs parted and feet hanging above the floor. Hannibal knows to rise to his feet and bring himself into the space between Will’s thighs. He tasks his fingers with slipping each of Will’s buttons free, starting at his bruised throat, down his chest, and to the last one that rests above his belt. He parts Will’s shirt with the slide of both hands between open fabric and across exposed skin.

They hadn’t seen much of each other before. It wasn’t an indulgence they’d allowed themselves. It’s not one they should allow themselves now either. Nothing about the place, time, means, or manner are sensible. It almost doesn’t matter.

Will shivers under his palm when he brushes his fingers along his ribs and a breath stutters in Will’s chest with the movement. One of his hands grips just below Will’s ribcage, while the other skims upwards along his chest and across his throat. He cradles his fingers around the nape of Will’s neck and coaxes him to tip his head back with gentle presses.

As his thumb pushes against a vibrant bruise, Will parts his lips and chokes a restrained gasp. Maintaining the pressure against the mark, Hannibal lowers his lips to suck a brand new one on the other side – perfectly symmetrical, like the ink of a Rorschach blot, a test of meaning and interpretation.

Even with the collection of beautiful decorations Will has already allowed him to leave behind, he hungers for more. A breath through his nose pulls in the harsh, metallic smell of Will’s cologne and he longs for something beyond the barest hint of Will’s natural scent. He finds himself feeling agitated all the more by a craving denied. In his core, Hannibal wants to experience Will at his most natural and aches for access to Will at his core too.

Will’s hands sneak between them to undo his own belt and fly. Although Will’s fingers fumble slightly, Hannibal soon hears the clink of a belt buckle and drag of a zipper. He pulls his hands away, if only for a moment, moving instead to ease Will’s pants and briefs past his hips and down his legs. Before too long, the clothes fall past his feet to drop in a heap at the floor. A suit jacket and shirt make a pile to the side of the desk as they both shrug away a layer. Will is left bare to him, dim lights creating a soft glow and shadows along his body’s dips and turns.

When all clothing has been pushed aside, skin connects with skin, hands stroking and touching in interest and exploration. He cradles Will’s hipbones in his grasp and guides him towards the desk’s edge. Will follows his lead as he leans back on his elbows and spreads his legs wider.

Hannibal’s fingers skims softly over skin, traveling from Will’s hip to where he’s wet and slick. He slides his thumb against Will’s clit, gentle direct touches and firm presses around the edges. Will groans softly, tightening the grip of his fists at his sides and biting into his lip, and Hannibal slips his fingers through the slick that coats the insides of his thighs and spills from his hole.

He slicks a finger and touches at Will’s hole lightly before slowly, deliberately pushing in one finger. He strokes a few times to allow Will to adjust and, when Will starts to squirm against his touch, presses in a second finger alongside the first. He touches, strokes, pushes, and presses until he finds the combination that has Will writhing. Will’s arms start to shake and further add to his body’s tremble until he gives in and eases himself flat against the desk. He reaches a hand down to grab at Hannibal’s wrist to halt him and pulls gently.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will rasps and Hannibal allows his hand to be guided from between Will’s legs and across his stomach. Will laces their fingers together as they find their place by his head.

Using his other hand, Hannibal strokes at his cock, sensitive and throbbing at having been ignored. He lets himself adjust to the feeling of being touched, spikes of pleasure giving way to shocks and fizzles. With the squeeze of Will’s hand around his, he lines himself up with Will’s wet hole and starts to slowly press in.

Groans emerge from them both as he sinks in deep. From the curl of their fingers together to Will’s arm around his shoulder and the squeeze of his slick hole, Will’s body embraces him. Will’s fingers digging into his shoulder blade, he pulls back and sinks back in, over and over, faster and harder. He kisses along Will’s neck and, when Will arches his throat against his teeth, they itch to clamp down and draw blood. Stifling the urge, he moves away from the temptation, forcing his mouth to stray towards his shoulder and channeling his craving into the thrust of his hips.

With his teeth pressed against Will’s shoulder, just shy of the pressure needed to break skin, he thrusts his knot in with one final push. His moan absorbs into Will’s skin. He can hear breaths stutter through Will’s chest and catch in his throat at a chaotic, jumbled pace. Will grits his teeth as his body goes very tense and then very slack. Will’s hole squeezes over and over holding him deep and pulling Hannibal’s orgasm from him. He spills and fills Will in bursts, their natures converging in a design crafted long ago, passed down through the generations to reach them.

Knotted together, their heartbeats return to normal, their breathing evens out, and sweat cools on their skin. All too soon, they are able to separate and are tasked with covering themselves up again.

“Were you thinking of rejecting me?” Hannibal asks as he rights his clothing.

Will sneaks a careful glance at him in between refastening buttons. The muscles in Will’s soft cheeks and smooth jaw tense harshly as he admits, “I wasn’t sure I could assume you’d be available for rejection.”

“I always want you to feel able to come to me.”

Will sneaks another look – more skeptical this time – as he slips the last button through its hole. “What are you testing me on?”

“You have passed every test with flying colors, I assure you, Will,” he soothes, as honest as he can be. It is certainly true that Will has triumphed on many occasions when others have not. He considers Will’s unpredictable shifts between resignation, confidence, and doubtfulness and asks, “How are you testing me?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Will answers, seeming as honest as he could be.

“Many troublesome behaviors strike when you are uncertain of yourself.”

Will gives him a firm look and counters, “I hope you’re not classifying this as troublesome behavior.”

“It could bring us trouble with time.”

Will slips his glasses back on and reaches for his bag. “If a student were to want to visit you outside of normal office hours, is that something you would allow?”

Hannibal considers what would be his most honest and convenient response, one that he could arguably give anyone even if in truth it is singularly intended for Will. “I suppose if a student notified me that they needed to schedule to meet outside my typical hours, I could be accommodating.”

Once again the image of studiousness, Will announces, “Consider this your notice then.”

\---

Will arrives at his professor’s office the next day and every day of the weeklong break between Summer Experience and the start of fall semester. It’s a nice lull, a time when his days are comprised of mornings with Beverly, afternoons in Dr. Lecter’s office, evenings working the front desk and watching therapy and, if they feel like it, late evenings spent in Dr. Du Maurier’s office or on one of the waiting room couches.

It’s a lull that comes to a screeching halt with the start of Fall semester and the flood of his fellow students. From one day to the next, the campus transforms from an anticipatory calm and quiet to the hustle and bustle of a frantic and frazzled swarm. Walking the sidewalk changes from an easy stroll to a struggle for space and breath.

There are so many bodies and, with them, so many scents and sights that flood him with unwanted information. Just waiting for the light to change at a street corner, he can scent the anxiety on the Beta woman rolling a suitcase and knows she’s on academic probation and, next to her, he scents an Alpha man’s boredom as he carries heavy cardboard boxes rattling with textbooks he has no interest in.

He isn’t sure which sicken him more: the scents that are new, which he is then compelled to inventory and learn, or the scents that tap into times gone by, which he is then forced to recall.

It is a constant deluge from the moment he leaves his dorm room until the minute he returns. It makes his head pound and stomach turn with every inhale. He can’t go to the cafeteria anymore. Even his spot in the back has been taken over by a group of sophomores who smell of stress and discontent. As studious as he is, Will even struggles to go to class. His Psych 101 course has as many students in it as his entire graduating class had.

Will tries his hardest not to show it. When he asks Beverly to bring him food, he pretends it’s because he simply didn’t have the time to go himself. He shows up to class as late as possible and leaves as soon as he can. He passes off the sickly sweat as the last of the heat from the summer. He endures the way his complaints of the heat are met with know-it-all remarks about how he’s continued to wear his flannel button-ups.

He doesn’t mention that the cologne in the collar, as always, is his one of only respites. He has the cologne in his collar and the cool, calm of Dr. Lecter’s office.

\---

Will sighs into the open air. A deep breath in almost cools him from the inside out. It tames the fever that itches under his skin for most of the day. The professor’s scent has always been so crisp and clean, so wonderfully nearly neutral. He’s known from the beginning that it’s _too_ neutral, too absent. The sweat on Will’s skin is not sickly but salty sweet. Dr. Lecter’s is too. Will can taste it when he turns his neck to press his lips against Hannibal’s sharp cheekbone. A truer scent lies underneath the salt, brought out by intimacy and the exertion that comes with it. 

“I know how you’ve been testing me,” Will confesses as he catches his breath. He can feel how every inhale pushes him against Hannibal and every exhale pulls him away again. He lays flat against the wood of the desk, his professor’s weight hovering just above him, holding himself still so as not to risk smothering him. “I know even though you wouldn’t tell me. Maybe _because_ you wouldn’t tell me.”

Dr. Lecter’s lips twitch, maybe amused the Will would make such a declaration while Hannibal’s still on top of him, still between his legs, still locked inside him. He is braced on elbows bent on either side of Will’s head, breathing puffs of air against Will’s damp neck, splotched with bruises old and new. He raises his head higher, looks at Will with curious eyes, and asks, “What have you decided?”

“For all this time together, all of what we’ve done, I still can’t say I really know you,” Will observes, tapping fingertips against his professor’s cheekbone. Hannibal never flinches, barely blinks. Will studies the steady gaze and continues, “I get little tidbits to pick at and marvel just like you like. You’re testing how close I can feel to you while you keep yourself farther away.”

Delight backlights the shine in Hannibal’s eyes. The professor’s scent warms, just a touch, just enough to warm Will in turn. He doesn’t feel it in the feverish way he’s all too familiar with, but like drinking down warm mint tea.

“Do you recall Schopenhauer’s dilemma?” Hannibal nearly whispers.

Will wrinkles his brow slightly and shifts his hand from tapping to stroking down the edge of Hannibal’s jaw. “The one Anthony mentioned? With the porcupines?”

Hannibal hums in agreement and explains, “Social exclusion researchers most commonly use the parable as proof of the fundamental human need for relationships and justification for why humans seek connection after ostracism. However, originally, Schopenhauer believed that humans ought to respond to interpersonal hurts by discovering the proper distance to tolerate each other. ‘ _The mean distance which they finally discover, and which enables them to endure being together, is politeness and good manners.’_ ”

Will tsks his tongue just once and remarks, “Seems you’ve been getting more quills than closeness.”

“You may be right about that.”

Hannibal’s knot has shrunk by now. Neither of them move to separate. Will leans forward and places his open mouth at the base of Dr. Lecter’s throat, just above his collarbone. He pulls skin lightly between his teeth and _sucks_. Hannibal moans deeply and Will feels it rumble against his lips. He pulls and pulls – knowing it’s already a certainty that what he leaves behind will be deep and dark – and keeps going nonetheless.

When he finally pulls away, he flattens his tongue over the mark and gives it one soothing lick. Seeing his handiwork, stark and purple against the coloring of Hannibal’s skin, he likes the way it turned out. As prominent as it is in color, it is easily concealable in placement. Hannibal won’t even need to go out of his way. He can wear his shirt and tie as always, nothing suspicious.

That Will knows is all that matters anyway. 

\---

Hannibal checks his watch as he walks down the corridor to his office. He has just finished his evening course – Social Psychology – and has perhaps enough time to look over a portion of Alana’s draft of her dissertation proposal before he needs to head home to prepare dinner. The research clinic has been cancelled for the day. Bedelia needed to reclaim the clinic space to onboard her new set of interns and not disrupt regular clinic hours. It could push the study a little longer, but not unmanageably so. It may be fortunate that most of the clients scheduled for today are the sort that have coped with isolation with emphatic agreeableness.

His thoughts are on data to be entered and documentation to review as he enters his office. His eyes blink in surprise when, rather than a pitch-black office and an empty desk chair, they instead find a softly lit room and his chair occupied by an unannounced – but not unwelcome – guest.

“Will,” Hannibal observes, “What a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

With clinic cancelled, he assumed Will would return to his dorm room after class or spend time with friends or maybe the lab would have another of their after-hours parties for him to attend. However, here he sits. Seated slumped and wilted, the form of the chair underneath him seems to be the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor. Turning bleary eyes in his direction, Will blinks his thoughts back from whatever far-off place held his focus.

“I just –” Will starts and Hannibal can see the gulp as it rolls through Will’s throat. Will rubs agitatedly at his eyes and across his face as he stammers, “I just needed somewhere to sit.”

“You seem unwell,” he says, noticing the shake in Will’s hand.

“I didn’t come here for you to _take care_ of me,” Will snaps, the power of it is curtailed somewhat by the quaver in his voice. “I know that’s not what this is.”

“And yet here you are,” he observes plainly as he kneels and smooths his palm over Will’s damp forehead.

Will is warm, but not concerningly feverish. Hannibal feels sweat along Will’s hairline as he brushes the curls away from his face. He cups Will’s face gently in his hands and studies his pallid complexion. He’s seen a version of this look in various iterations over the past few weeks. Will sometimes stumbled in on uneasy feet when he visited Hannibal’s office. Other times he shifted to and from a sickly pallor with the ebb and flow of clients in the waiting room. More often than not he looked absolutely exhausted by it all.

He knows Will thinks he’s good at hiding it.

“There was once a measure of ostracism using aversive noise blasts,” he explains, hands lingering on Will’s smooth, striking jawline. “Half the participants were given control of the blasts and half were not. Ostracized people who had no control over the onslaught were denied the chance to fortify their threatened needs and responded to exclusion more aggressively in an attempt to regain control.”

Will sighs and pulls away from his grasp, slumping himself deeper into the chair. “As much as it might disappoint you, I’m not really in the mood to discuss research findings.”

Hannibal stands and sits back against his desk as he benevolently explains, “You experience an onslaught of noise outside of your control. It may not be auditory, but it can be aversive.”

“I manage.”

“What you feel is overwhelming you,” he insists.

Will rubs anxiously again at his eyes and shakily declares, “I know, I know, I know.”

“You choose to ignore it.”

“ _What?”_ Will says roughly. “Do you want me to quit? Just drop out and go back to Louisiana?”

He shakes his head. Of course that’s not what he wants. Of course, he knows Will’s question is more a reflection of his own fears than a true accusation against him. He fits Will’s soft check back into his palm and gently tilts his face to make eye contact, as he reassures, “You must acknowledge what is happening in order to properly address it.”

Will closes his eyes but doesn’t pull away again. Hannibal can feel the tension radiating through him as he reluctantly confesses, “It’s just all the _people_ with all their _smells_. It’s a constant fog I can’t escape and I can feel my nerves _clicking_ like roller coaster cogs, pulling up to the inevitable, long plunge and there’s _nothing_ to do about it.”

Hannibal moves his hand from Will’s check to weave back through his hair and down to his neck. Pressing careful fingers to the gland there, he applies soothing touches until the tension held in Will’s shoulders and brow start to even out.

“If you can bear to wait until I’m done with my work, I’ll make you dinner,” he offers. “It may help you to feel better.”

Will manages to give him the smallest smirk as he says, “I know how important a good meal is to you. I promise not to get in your way.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He watches Will relax once more into his desk chair and he observes as Will’s eyes slip closed and his head lulls to the side. Will takes a few deep, shaky breaths and, soon enough, his breathing manages to even out as he drifts to sleep. Still flushed and sweaty, his limbs are lax and his posture is open. His unwinding is noticeable in the relaxed shape of his brows and the soft parting of his lips.

Hannibal pulls his attention back to the work he’d decided to do before Will’s appearance. He stretches an arm to pick up his tablet – Will would pardon his reach – and, once he has it in hand, he circles around to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. He dedicates himself to the task, reviewing the study design and scrutinizing whether it would truly serve to provide something _novel_.

His gaze only strays towards Will perhaps once or twice.

\---

Watching Hannibal cook is a performance complete with flames and showy knife skills. True to his word, Will stays out of the way and watches from where Hannibal had seated him with guiding, gentlemanly hands – so fancy, so _proper_. Head propped up on one arm bent at the elbow, he leans against the counter and eyes Hannibal’s no doubt expensive appliances kept pristine and sparkling. With his impeccably white shirt and perfectly styled hair, Dr. Lecter matches his surroundings. This is where Hannibal fits in.

Once it seems that all the cooking has been done, Will is ushered from his seat and escorted to a new chair in the dining room. Where the kitchen glinted and gleamed, the dining room is rather matte and muted. With decoration lining the mantle, a centerpiece on the table, and a truly bizarre painting on the wall, it’s darker, fussier. As Hannibal walks in with their food in an artfully arranged display, Will knows this is where his professor fits in too.

Will assumes this is how Hannibal prefers to dine: seated around a table the proper way. The fact that they’ve had so many meals before without all this propriety is another piece to save to marvel at later. It seems almost odd that he saw that Hannibal before this one. It’s all such a mishmash of intimacy and decorum that it makes his head spin. 

Hannibal pauses to pick up his wine glass and, in a clearly well-practiced motion, smells the wine before tipping the glass to take a sip. “Earlier, in my office, you said ‘ _that’s not what this is_ ,’” his professor reminds him. “What do you understand _this_ to be?”

“Having conversations, eating together,” Will says, lifting a bite of food on his fork and raising a single, purposeful brow. “Sometimes sex.”

“Is that what you want?” Dr. Lecter asks as he sets his glass back in its appropriate spot on the table.

Will sighs and drops his fork back to his plate, wincing at the clang of silver against china. “It’s less _messy_.”

“Less _messy_ ,” Hannibal repeats meaningfully.

“Less opportunity for disappointment.”

Hannibal tilts his head thoughtfully and gives a similarly charged tilt of his gaze. “Your disappointment or mine?”

Will rubs at his forehead with one shaky hand, a throbbing building in his skull. “I don’t know. Either? Both?”

“I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

“Well,” Will says with a chuckle. The wobble in his voice blunts his otherwise sarcastic tone as he says, “This should be interesting. Please, Doctor, proceed.”

Hannibal holds eye contact, holds so firm that Will can’t possibly pull away. He knows even if he tried, it would hardly reduce the intensity. After a moment’s consideration, his professor purses his lips and offers, “I wonder if your experiences as a child made it difficult to know when or if you would be cared for, which has made it difficult for you to feel comfortable asking for it.”

“Is this the long way for you to say you want commitment?” he asks plainly, his meal cooling in front of him.

“Do you agree with my assessment?”

“Maybe.”

“What if, instead of your choice being whether to risk asking, all you would need to decide is what you wanted to accept and give?” Hannibal asks earnestly.

Will wipes his hand across his mouth as his mind scrambles to comprehend. “Aren’t you the one who wants to keep proper distance?”

“There are extraordinary circumstances here, Will,” Hannibal confesses. “And unusual opportunities. For the both of us.”

Will sighs. He can’t think straight. It seems to make good sense, but a pang deep inside seems to tell him something’s wrong. Conflicted, he mumbles, “I don’t know.”

“When I bring you dinner do you feel cared for? Comforted?” Hannibal asks steadily.

“Yes,” he admits breathily.

“Has that been a positive experience?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal wraps his fingers around Will’s hand and holds it in a gentle grip. His eyes soften but are no less intense as he continues, “Regardless of whether you’ll admit it, when you came to my office tonight, you sought care and comfort. Do you regret your decision?”

“No,” Will replies with a small, sincere smile as he grips back against Hannibal’s confident hold.

Hannibal smiles too with a pleased turn of his lips. “If I offered for you to stay here tonight, would you like to accept?”

Sitting in Hannibal’s fancy house, at his fancy table, in front of a fancy meal, there’s another pang that rattles through him until it pounds in his head. He feels weak and woozy. But, the idea of going back to his dorm makes him feel truly _sick_. The scents in the hall, all the bodies, all the _details_ , just the thought of them makes his stomach roll. Eating in the somber dining room, sleeping in the no doubt similarly darkly decorated bedroom and in between sheets with a cooling scent and feel, the idea of it settles him. 

“I’d like to stay.”

\---

Will is woken in the night. Through the fog of half-wakefulness, he presses his hand to his chest and feels the steady beat of his heart and the dry texture of his cotton shirt. He blinks sluggishly. His thoughts are muddled and confused that it’s not his pounding heart that’s woken him like it has for the past several nights in a row. He moves to roll from his back to his side. His body jolts when he bumps unexpectedly against Hannibal. Half-asleep, he’d forgotten that he hadn’t gone to bed alone.

He rolls himself back to his back, his hand returning to his chest to feel the calming of his heart. With his hand back against his dry shirt, he finds it easy to feel thankful that he hasn’t woken up to his sweat dampening Dr. Lecter’s fancy sheets. He smooths his other hand over the soft, cool fabric, so different from the cheap cotton ones on his own bed. 

Lulled by the beat of his own heart, he eases himself nearly to sleep. Just before he tips back into a dream, he realizes what woke him. _There_ in the dark; it’s not nearly loud enough to be a snore, just as much of a feel as a sound.

This time, with purpose, Will turns to his side to press himself against Hannibal’s body. With his face tucked against Hannibal’s shoulder, he inhales the softness of Hannibal’s scent and presses a kiss to the skin beneath his lips. Eyes closed in the dark, he slides his hands along his professor’s side and up his chest and touches his fingers along the stretch of a collarbone. As his fingers drift higher, he imagines he can feel the bruise he’d left under his fingers. It’s faded since he’d bestowed it. He noticed that when his professor undressed for bed and he’d feared his wish that it would never fade.

Will feels lightly at Hannibal’s throat, not applying pressure, simply laying his palm and fingers against his skin. He feels the vibration in his palm as he hears it rumble through the air: a purr, the most purely natural expression of contentment in their kind.

Will doesn’t dare move. Stood still nearly in awe, he remains there, body curled against Hannibal’s, hand against his throat, lips against his shoulder for what could be minutes or hours. He can’t grasp what this all makes him feel. He tries to reach and search and stretch for some sort of handhold but comes up empty-handed. He falls asleep without an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

_Will walks down a hallway he’s seen many times before. It’s tucked away to keep it secret, confidential. Down the length of hallways stands Dr. Lecter, one arm gracefully outstretched in a gesture of welcome and encouragement aimed to guide him through an open door._

_Beyond the door, everything is to be expected but in mirror image: the sunless plant in the corner, the two armchairs placed an acceptable distance apart and an appropriate distance together, and a table at a reachable distance with a box of tissues, one standing straight up at the ready._

_Will approaches the mirror on the wall and lays a hand against it. His reflection looks tired: bags under his eyes and face a little slack like his muscles are too exhausted to hold everything together. This face fades from its gray pallor to absorb into the sliver glass. Just as it disappears the same face, but different arises in its place: him, again, with warmer coloring and wearing headphones and a rapt expression. He and his likeness both have their own Dr. Lecter and each turn to look at their respective professor’s pensive expression. One Dr. Lecter is there in the glass and the other behind him, seated primly in a chair._

_The chair opposite Dr. Lecter is unoccupied. Will knows he’s meant to sit, so he does as he should and turns away from the mirror to take his seat. He lays his forearms on the armrests and spreads his legs against the sides of the chair. He feels unfurled and bracketed in – like a frog pinned and prepped for dissection. Across from him, Dr. Lecter looks perfectly serene, superior and all-knowing – like he’s done this dissection many times before._

_“Where should we start?” Dr. Lecter asks, suddenly sitting at his dining room table._

\---

Will wakes, touching his hand to his chest above his heart. It’s calm. His shirt is only a little damp and the flush he feels isn’t sticky and sickly. Light peaks through dark curtains and fills the room with a stuffy heat. Everything looks different in the morning light; the room looks so strange in soft, warm sun.

Hannibal lies asleep beside him, barely covered by the edge of a sheet and blanket. The rest of the covers are wrapped around Will, cocooning him in. He carefully unwinds the covers, cautiously positions them more equally across them, and then curls away on his side.

When Hannibal shifts and settles every so often behind him, Will remembers a routine he did at the few sleepovers he’d had as a kid: wake up too early, pretend to sleep until his host wakes up, and wait until they leave the room before “waking up” himself. In accordance with this routine, he tries not to react when his professor starts to stir and keeps himself from moving as Dr. Lecter peels away the blankets Will arranged.

It’s much harder to keep pretending when he feels the brush of Hannibal’s fingers through his hair and stroking against his cheek.

He officially “wakes up” a convenient amount of time after Dr. Lecter’s footsteps fade behind the quiet open and close of a door. When Will gets out of bed, he tries to tidy it up again. He tucks in the sheets and positions the pillows, but, as he looks at his work, he knows something about it must be wrong. There’s something fussy he’s supposed to do with throw pillows probably or some sort of blanket at the foot of the bed.

Will fetches his clothes from a nearby chair. He slips off the shirt Hannibal loaned him: a relatively simple cotton t-shirt, a size or two too large for him. Even though he had watched Hannibal pull it from a drawer in his closet, as Will slips it over his head with a tug at the back of the neck, he still has a hard time imagining Dr. Lecter ever actually wearing it.

Padding out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into his professor’s kitchen is _odd_. He also remembers this feeling from when he was younger– the awkward feeling of waking up in someone else’s home, uncertainty about if he’s allowed to get a bowl of cereal, curious if the cereal options will be fun ones.

He watches passively as Dr. Lecter dispenses coffee from some sort of contraption Will has never seen before and doesn’t understand the purpose of. Hannibal’s hair is less styled than usual but less rumpled than bedhead and Will runs his fingers through his own, tangling his fingers in the twists and knots. His professor is in both a button up and a robe, which is so quintessentially him that, for a moment, Will feels like laughing and, even though he doesn’t, the urge unfurls some little smidge of tension in his chest.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal says pleasantly as he hands Will a steaming coffee cup. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well,” Will answers honestly and just as honestly adds, “Other than some strange dreams.”

Hannibal hums as he stirs sugar into his own steaming coffee and reassures, “Dreams prepare us for waking life.”

“It’s one thing to dream; it’s another to understand the nature of the dream,” Will quips dryly. The coffee’s warmth seeps into his hand through the glass and he gives the liquid a perfunctory blow. “So much about this feels like a dream, I’m not even entirely sure I’m awake now.”

“Drink your coffee,” Hannibal encourages. “It might help you to make your assessment.”

As Will takes a sip, he coughs against the slight burn and the sting at his tongue. Steam continues to drift from the cup and fills his nose with the earthy sweet smell as he watches Dr. Lecter consider the coffee stage complete and shift his attention to finishing preparing their meal. It’s nothing showy this time – no fire shooting out of the pan or catching a potato on a knife’s edge. It is instead so _normal_ : scrambled eggs and sausage. It’s so _homey_.

Will can feel his professor’s contentment. He can smell it in the way his scent seems softened: the starkest parts left behind and interwoven with sleepiness in his sheets. He can see it in the easy, practiced motions: sure hands that don’t second guess. It is soft, but he can still feel the vibration of Hannibal’s purr in his palm and fingers – or maybe that’s just his own shakiness, he can’t be sure. Although, other than a general feeling of _unsettled_ , he feels remarkably steady – not entirely steadfast, but a little less sick, less woozy, which is an incredible relief.

When his cup is empty, Dr. Lecter ushers him into the dining room and replaces his coffee with a tea: a ginger, lemon, and thyme combination. The ginger will cleanse his sinuses, he’s told as his professor places it in front of him like the best server at the highest end restaurant. The lemon and thyme are for aroma and flavor, apparently.

Will digs into the meal as he knows he’s meant to and he thinks of his dream as Hannibal asks him what is on the agenda for the day. The self-satisfied expression on his professor’s face is nearly one and the same with the vague memory he has of his dream.

\---

Will nearly jumps out of his skin when Alana raps her knuckles against the wood of the waiting room doorway. Will had sunken deep into his own thoughts and hadn’t expected her to be there. Her client canceled for the day so she has available time, but this free time usually means she’ll park herself with her dinner behind a mirror. He knows that it’s important to her that she can contribute as much as possible during group supervision.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” he murmurs in apology, embarrassed for reacting.

Returning to the rest of the world has been jarring all day. One step into a lecture hall this morning and he had to immediately turn back around. The scents twisted and turned so roughly inside him that he ended up throwing up the nutritious breakfast in the bathroom. Although that was hours ago, his body has continue to rebel every so often throughout the day. He feels flushed and fatigued. The shake in his hand can no longer be confused for anything but sickly.

She smiles generously at him and, through lips slightly tense with duplicitousness, she says, “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced like this.”

“What’s on your mind, Alana?” he sighs, doing his very best to not let his tiredness bring out frustration in him.

“You,” she replies honestly. “I appreciated your insight during group supervision.”

“Just said what I noticed,” Will dismisses easily.

“Master’s level students have difficulty feeling confident enough to speak up in that kind of space,” Alana tsk-tsks at him as she perceives self-deprecation.

“I didn’t do it because I felt _confident_ ,” he balks.

“I like hearing you speak up. Others did too, I can tell.”

“A _professional curiosity_ ,” he mimics, recalling a beloved phrase in the lab. He has heard it many times since the kick-off party. Most often, he hears it used in reference to Dr. Lecter, but, from time to time, Will also knows the comments are in reference to him. He heard Frederick once not-so-quietly whisper to Anthony just how _curious_ he finds Will.

“Maybe in part,” Alana concedes because she has to. “But it can be a relatively small part. You’re allowed to make friends with us, Will. We’re not too scary.”

“Agree to disagree.”

He can tell Alana wants to roll her eyes but is too kind. Instead she crosses her arms, fixes him with a look that’s both stern and softhearted, and offers, “We’ll have another party at the end of the study, I’m sure. Folks will want to celebrate. Frederick will insist.”

“Maybe your…um, your partner can come,” Will suggests. “I forget her name.”

“Margot,” she reminds him as her soft heart softens further. 

“What is she like?”

“She’s pretty great. She’s graduate student like me, studies Business,” she explains and laughs when Will grimaces. “It wouldn’t have been her first choice either. It was a side step from Agricultural and Applied Economics and a leap away from Animal Sciences.”

Will scoffs, “I would have chosen Animal Sciences, _easy_.”

Alana laughs again, just once, scrunching her nose and smiling without restraint. Her happy expression then quickly turns curious. “Why do you ask?”

Will rubs a hand against his neck and digs fingers into the sweaty skin and aching muscle at the nape. “Do you find it hard to turn it off? Being a therapist? When you’re with her.”

“A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient,” she recites, as if she’s recited it a thousand times. “A doctor who tries to treat her partner is even more foolish still.”

“People do foolish things all the time.”

“I want to use my judgement and the skills I’ve learned to help us,” she admits honestly. “Empathic listening, interpersonal effectiveness, emotional intelligence – they’re not like other jobs where the lines are easily drawn. A medical doctor knows when they practice their work at home.”

“Is it ever helpful? Being able to really _see_ her?” he asks, hoping that the tone of his voice sounds professionally curious rather than personally invested.

“Sometimes it helps that I understand why she is the way she is. She doesn’t have to explain so much and it helps me to know how to support her,” Alana says with an agreeable shrug and the tone of a story half-told.

“But?” Will sighs reluctantly, ready to hear the answer he expects but doesn’t want.

“Margot would probably tell you that, when it comes to choosing between what would be best treatment-wise and what would be best as a partner, I don’t always make the right choice.”

“Do you ever want to,” he starts and then pauses to choose his words, “Do you ever want to help her to see it the way you do?”

“I try to think of it like the Johari Window,” she explains, again with the air of someone who’s reminded herself of this on multiple occasions, someone who searched for something to hold onto in moments of uncertainty. “We cannot see ourselves fully without the help of others. What is unknown becomes known through the exchange of disclosure and feedback built on a foundation of trust and safety.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“Sometimes,” she agrees easily. “It’s a process. Boundaries will always be subject to negotiation.”

“Negotiation,” he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue. “Borders drawn from battle.”

“Maybe something more _diplomatic,_ ” she tuts at his surliness. Alana’s scent, which is usually so pleasantly mellow and in which Will can usually easily identify a hint of Dr. Lecter, takes a stronger, harsher turn that pulls at his senses. “Dealing with each other in sensitive and effective ways.”

“I wish I could say I know how that works,” he says, rubbing agitatedly at the sweat gathering on his forehead.

“Will,” she says with a pause. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Just a little overheated. I tend to run hot,” he half-lies. “They say stress raises body temperature.”

“Maybe you should take an Asprin,” she suggests but he can tell she’s resisting the urge to feel his forehead to check for a temperature herself.

“Will do.”

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you?” she insists. “Whatever you need. You can even come over and pet Applesauce, if you like. You can ask Margot if she thinks I’ve been doing a good job.”

His smile to her is genuine. She paints a nice picture, even as partial as it is when Will doesn’t know what Margot looks like to make it complete. He remembers the Omega’s scent – flowery, sophisticated, airy – and he imagines meeting the kind of person to match, imagines meeting the kind of person Alana partners with. He pictures sitting on the floor with the comfort offered by a dog as he observes Alana and Margot and what a relationship could be like.

\---

Will twists his hands around the strap of his bag, wringing it in the grip of his fists. He eyes the clock. When he blinks away, he can hear it tick just as he can hear sounds of drawers closing, doors being locked, footsteps. The minute hand lurches forward.

He should leave soon.

He shifts from one foot to the other, fumbles a hand down to “check” that everything he needs is in his bag and it’s closed properly. He argues to himself that he wouldn’t want to leave and find out he’s forgotten a book or dropped it halfway to the bus stop.

He doesn’t know why he bothers lying to himself or why he’s even trying to lie to Dr. Lecter with his oh-so-convenient lingering. There’s no point to it. He can see just how futile it is in the lack of surprise in his professor’s eyes when Dr. Lecter exits the office and sees Will standing in the deserted hallway. Hannibal’s features are kept so absolutely still. Dr. Lecter’s expression is so lacking in fluster that it makes Will acutely aware of his own features, suddenly incredibly conscious of how he is holding his lips and eyebrows and whether his eyes show his uncertainty.

Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder. The positioning is appropriate but the angle, spread, and touch of his fingers is affectionate. Will tries not to let surprise show on his face – or pleasure or worry.

He doesn’t have to ask. Lingering was all the asking Will could do. The hand on his shoulder is an offer. The clock is forgotten as they walk down the hallway towards where he knows the faculty parking lot is. They both follow as much as they lead. The hand on his shoulder is a steady presence but not _pushy_. Will steps forward, but not far away.

Will lets Dr. Lecter open the car door for him even though it’s ridiculous. There’s no need to be so showy. He simply takes his seat and allows the door to be closed for him as well. His professor’s hand is absent as he circles around but finds its way back in the form of a hold on Will’s thigh once the car is in drive.

He wants so badly to bring their intertwined hands to his nose. Hannibal’s scent fills the car, but it’s faint. He longs for the strength of the source. He holds back, waits. He will wait until his blood stops boiling and brain stops swimming. He will wait until he knows what unknown exactly he is hoping to reveal.

\---

Beverly’s sigh is loud and angry. It reaches from Beverly’s seat on his bed to his own perch at his desk and yanks his attention back from his immersion into the pages of his textbook. When he hears another disgruntled huff, his eyes flick to her with his own unhappy expression. He knows Beverly has hit a certain part of her homework when their focused, quiet study sessions become punctuated by groans and complaints. 

Beverly meets his eyes, rolls her own in exasperation, and complains, “I’ve looked in every page of every chapter of this book and every word in every page of my notes. Nothing.”

“Look again,” Will intones. This is a part of Beverly’s process too. He knows she has always been an outstanding student – smart, capable, and studious. She has been a student so accustomed to always being the best in the class that she never needed to learn the skills to cope when she’s struggling. What Will has observed is that Beverly sometimes needs encouragement to persist and this is an observation that he knows how to use: if she gives up and decides she can’t find the answer, it is his job to insist she can until she does.

“I did my agains. And my again and again and _agains_ ,” she bemoans, hitting her hands against his bedspread. “I can’t find anything even remotely related to this fucking homework.”

“That’s what you get for taking Biochemistry,” he says, goading.

“Shut up,” she snaps, but her slight smile means it’s missing some of its bite. “It’s easy for you to say when the closest you’ll get to a science course is if they have a dog training class in the Zoology department.”

“Peter already told me about the _Biology And Appreciation Of Companion Animals_ class, so the joke’s on you,” Will counters teasingly. “And anyway Psychology is a science.”

Beverly scoffs and tosses her paper at him. It floats nearly all the way before dropping abruptly at his feet. “Come back and talk to me when your homework looks like this shit.”

Will grabs the paper from the floor and grimaces at the combination of letters and symbols on the page. “No thanks,” he says, tossing the paper back to her.

“Every semester is going to be like this,” she laments, squinting in confusion again at her assignment. “Chemistry classes have finals that are _literally_ designed for us to fail and the only hope for me is if everyone else fails more than I do.”

“Psychological warfare is a key component of any Biochemistry curriculum,” he pronounces, with an impression of the stuffy air he associates with whatever antiquated head of the department thought that this was a reasonable approach to learning.

“I complained about it to Dr. Crawford during my check-in with him and he gave me his version of a pep talk.”

“Something to the effect of: _You’re going to do it because you have to_.”

“Exactly,” she confirms with a laugh. “He recommended I take a Criminal Justice class next semester and he says he expects you’ll want to take it too.”

“He told you that.”

“I assume that he assumed I’d relay the message.”

“A job well done,” Will grumbles.

“It would be fun to take a class together,” she offers. There is a genuine hopefulness to be found in her eyes and in the tilt of her smile.

“Passing ships in the academic night,” he muses, smiling at her genuinely too. He can appreciate Dr. Crawford’s master plan. Will recognizes that he is unlikely to agree to enroll in a class just because Dr. Crawford wants it, but Beverly asking him to holds a different appeal.

Beverly sets aside her paper and pencil, crosses her arms, and shifts in her seat on his bed. “I knocked on your door the other night. I thought I’d come bother you when you were studying, but you weren’t there.”

Will feels tension grip at his chest, the tight feeling of nervousness – a nervousness that has many suspects to have a clear culprit. “I’ve been staying over at Hannibal’s sometimes,” he admits.

He resists the urge to fish his phone out of his jacket pocket. He tucked it away there after sending Hannibal a message telling him he wouldn’t be coming over for the night. He tucked it away so that it might be easier for him not to wonder about any meaning behind Hannibal’s simple response of _Okay_.

“At _Hannibal’s?_ ” Beverly emphasizes with the lift of a brow. “I’ve always heard you say _Dr. Lecter_.”

Will waves a hand dismissively and looks back to his textbook. “I figure we’ve seen each other naked enough that I should be allowed to call him his name every once in a while,” he excuses.

“It’s serious, then?” Beverly asks as she shifts herself closer, bringing with her a waft of her sweet, sharp scent.

“I guess,” Will says with a shrug and a sniff at the cologne in his collar.

Beverly sighs in frustration of a fonder sort. “For someone who usually has no problem declaring his opinion to anyone and everyone, you can be so squirrelly.”

The hold at his sternum gives another clench. Sweat creeps at the back of his neck, yet another feeling without a definite explanation. He pulls a deep breath of the biting scent of his cologne, grounds himself in the harsh familiarity, and searches for some of that conviction Beverly’s looking for. “It feels like I left behind everything simple in Louisiana,” he confesses.

“You’re a student dating a professor. It’s not going to be simple,” she reminds him. Her tone is neither critical nor comforting. She is straightforward as always, encouraging Will to persist where he wavers. 

“It’s not even that. Not really. Not in the way you mean,” he asserts. Some part of him is relieved to be gaining clarity from knowing how he disagrees. “What’s supposed to feel bad feels good and what’s supposed to feel good does but it also feels a little bit bad.”

“The ‘bad’ is the illicit affair and the ‘good’ is?”

Will sighs and rubs at his eyes with his fingers. “Saying ‘ _affection_ ’ feels ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous if it’s true,” she counters. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

He keeps his eyes covered and visual white noise blooms under the press of his fingers. “Saying ‘ _getting hurt_ ’ feels even more ridiculous.”

“Is he being a dick?”

“No,” he answers easily.

He understands her concern. It’s an easy assumption to make, an assumption many others would make, but that hasn’t been anywhere close to the problem. His professor doesn’t make demands, doesn’t threaten him to keep secrets, doesn’t go out of his way to make his power known. A part of Will knows this is because none of that was needed. Dr. Lecter has no need to make his power known beyond the control he maintains in his careful use of his words and expressions. 

“Then what?” she questions, leaning her crossed arms against where the bed’s backboard merges with the edge of the desk.

“I could get attached and then it could go wrong,” Will confesses. Both the admission and the tone feel weak.

“Does he not want you to get attached?” she tries again, poking at the corners, corralling his frayed worries into some semblance of order.

“Everything he says suggests he’d be more than fine with a little attachment.”

“So?” she asks, another poke.

“That may be what he said,” Will argues, feeling how the words pull at the clench of his chest, tugging and wrenching so suddenly that it starts to bleed. It bleeds in the beading of sweat and the lurch of his stomach. “It’s not necessarily what he thinks.”

“You could tell better than anyone if he’s lying,” she reminds him, firmly but with care. “Does it seem like he’s lying?”

Will thinks of the way Hannibal shapes his words. He recalls how Dr. Lecter’s mouth curls around the sounds and how his tone fashions the meaning. He remembers how he can feel the empty air when Hannibal wants him to, as well as when his professor perhaps doesn’t intend it. “There’s always something he’s not saying,” he observes, though he concedes that’s not the same as lying.

“You’re so used to knowing everything upfront. Now you have learn to be patient like the rest of us,” Beverly says as she reaches behind her to grip at her heavy textbook. She holds it up with both hands and taps with one finger at the cover as she explains, “Lessons learned in cellular decay: enjoy the world while we have it and give a little back.”

\---

The best way Hannibal can describe Will is _skittish_.

He watches Will from his seat on his couch as Will circles. He studies Will studying the room. He observes Will drawing conclusions from the art on his walls. He watches Will hover his fingers over the paint, watches him drift his fingers over the keys of the harpsichord without making a sound, and watches him read the titles along the spines of the books Hannibal keeps in his home library instead of his office one. Will circles and circles, casting occasional glances to check that Hannibal hasn’t moved, searching for a reaction.

Someone who isn’t a therapist or someone prone to anxiety might interpret the behavior negatively: a sign of reticence, warning that Will is about to bolt. Hannibal, having both a training in therapy and being a principally dispassionate person, sees the behavior as it is: encouragement. If Will intended to run, he would have. Will wouldn’t be inspecting and examining every inch of Hannibal’s study, if he wanted to bolt.

It would be pointless to try to shower Will with reassurances. Only actions and discussions of actions will have an impact. Even if, for the moment, Hannibal’s action is _inaction_. Through his inaction, he exemplifies authenticity in ways that words never would. Inaction encourages a skittish creature to soothe himself in his surroundings before then coaxing that cunning boy into approaching further danger.

“I don’t want you to psychoanalyze me,” Will finally announces.

Will doesn’t face him when he provides this declaration, shielding himself from perception pointed at both ends. Instead, he faces the wall, casting words over his shoulder, confident that he does not need to see the lure to be successful in his hook.

Even if Will can’t see it, Hannibal has come to the understanding that Will can still find ways to sense his expression, so he allows it to convey his curiosity. It’s benign enough.

“I don’t consider myself a practitioner of psychoanalysis,” he quips.

“You know what I mean,” Will snaps as he turns around, his steely expression is pointed too. “Therapist and client, that’s an asymmetrical relationship.”

“There is a power differential between therapist and client, one that I’m well aware of,” he states simplistically. “We’re not therapist and client though, are we?”

“We’re just having conversations,” Will agrees, but it’s not a concession. “To an outside observer, those conversations can sound a lot like therapy.”

“What does it sound like to the participant?” he asks, allowing his tone to pull at Will with open encouragement.

Will sighs reluctantly, turning away again. “It might sound a little like therapy to him too,” he mutters as if confessing to the bookcase instead.

“Interactions can be therapeutic without becoming therapy,” he reassures. “You are concerned that my offer felt therapeutic and you’re afraid that what is therapeutic is therapy.”

Will goes quiet and touches at the spine of the same book he’s already touched half a dozen times. He tips it out from the bookshelf and flips to a page towards the center. Will’s eyes scan the words but his thoughts seem far away from the page. Hannibal can almost see the thoughts that are cycling, considered and dismissed. It’s a look Hannibal is familiar with. It makes him gluttonous. It makes him wish he could consume all of Will’s thoughts, feasting on every opinion and idea. He is soothed by the recognition that this wouldn’t be nearly as rewarding as hearing them prepared and provided by Will himself.

“We may not be therapist and client,” Hannibal observes, “but we are professor and student. It is a power differential, still unbalanced.”

Will’s eyes testily snap back to attention. Will places the book back in its proper place and walks behind where Hannibal is seated on the couch, denying Hannibal the opportunity to observe directly and forcing him to use his senses to know Will too.

“There’s a difference between teaching me _information_ and teaching me _about myself_ ,” Will clarifies. 

Denied the sight of Will, Hannibal speaks into the open air, “Every element of an interpersonal interaction is an opportunity for us to learn about ourselves.”

“I’m not comfortable with anybody inside my head,” Will murmurs, words hanging in open air.

“You’re applying yourself to my perspective as I’ve been applying myself to yours,” he reminds Will, feeling his presence looming behind and over him. “We are particularly equipped to provide each other insight. It might be a waste of opportunity to not allow each other to share it.”

Hannibal turns carefully in his seat and curls his hand around Will’s where it’s resting still on the back of the couch. He holds it gently and, as he turns again, guides Will along with the pivot of his body. Will, generous as he is with his body in ways he is not always with his thoughts, allows this guiding watchfully. Will’s eyes track him as he circles – perhaps the longest he’s ever held eye contact – and Will holds it for a moment longer still once he comes to stand in front of him. Hannibal remains steady, barely blinking, as he uncrosses his legs and welcomes Will between his knees.

“Observing is what we do,” Hannibal encourages genuinely. “I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off. I wouldn’t want you to.”

Will flicks his eyes up and away as he slips his hand from Hannibal’s light hold. Will drags his fingers from Hannibal’s wrist, along his arm, and up to his shoulder with the care and interest that he’d had for the spines of books. “Your veneer of self-composure gives a strong sense of the surreal,” he muses, a justification.

“You are learning to receive as I am learning to give,” Hannibal sympathizes, an explanation. “If you need to for comfort, you can rely on my selfishness to know that I only would give if I were willing and rely on my diligence to know that I would not invest in something without longevity.”

Will crowds further between his legs and grips at his shoulders in both hands, leaning forward gently and insistently to press Hannibal against the back of the couch. He then raises each leg to bracket his knees on either side of Hannibal’s hips. Will’s presence is lovely in his lap, solid and sure as he can see Will’s mind churn once again. Smooth cheeks, soft lips, lovely hair, and fierce eyes, Will is a glorious anomaly.

“I needed it to be clear, what I was seeing,” Will whispers, leaning in to hover his lips nearly close enough to touch Hannibal’s. “I have to deal with you. And my feelings about you. I think it’s best if I do that directly.”

“I agree,” he replies, allowing himself a small smile and tipping his head to close the space between them. He can feel the smile reflected in Will’s lips against his.

\---

While Will sits cross-legged on the bed, Hannibal is afforded the opportunity appreciate how the sickly paleness to his cheeks has been replaced with healthy color. It is not the first time he’s appreciated the sight. As midterms have gotten closer and closer, Will has been a guest more and more. With his first exam just a day away, Will has paid a visit every night for the past five nights and shows no plan to lose his streak.

Will’s glasses sit still on the nightstand where Hannibal left them and Hannibal’s shirt hangs unbuttoned, open, and loose around Will’s smaller frame, rolled up at the sleeves. Will rarely looks up from the heavy textbook in his lap. He pours over the words with his full attention and occasionally makes notations along the sides of the pages. However, when Will does occasionally flit his gaze towards him, the vibrant, beautiful blue of the shirt mirrors his eyes strikingly and Hannibal is captured for a moment by the perfect match.

He runs his fingers through Will’s hair over and over again. Free of feverish sweat, the many soft strands slip between his fingers and Will, as consumed as he is with his reading, doesn’t even flinch when Hannibal occasionally gets lightly caught on a knot and works through it between meticulous, nimble fingers.

Feeling a swell of fondness pulse with every touch of his fingers, the act is an exchange between the two of them that exemplifies the effectiveness of their breed and biology. Intellectually, Hannibal knows the act of allogrooming is designed to fuel the affection in them both. Related to the parts of the brain associated with recognition and memory, as well as social and emotional processing, it increases the flow of generosity, tolerance, and cohesion through their connection. Experiencing the soft satisfaction in Will’s response and the glow that time spent together has brought to Will’s cheeks, he can feel in his blood, muscles, and bones how the intellectual becomes emotional, physical, tangible.

“What piece of psychological history are you studying today?” he asks as he scratches his nails lightly against Will’s scalp.

“Bandura,” Will replies as he dips his head and leans into the touch, sighing softly in satisfaction. “The Bobo doll experiment.”

“Yet another example of a much discussed discovery with origins in what would now be ethically frowned upon,” he observes with a hum. The midterm for Will’s introductory psychology course seems to be a deep dive into influential, but potentially questionable research.

Will nods pliantly and sighs contentedly as he remarks, “The pieces of information we wouldn’t have if we’d known better than to look."

“The darker parts of humankind revealed through distress and inflicted insight,” he comments. His fingers catch on another knot at the nape of Will’s neck and Will holds perfectly still as he works his fingers free.

“Inflicted insight,” Will repeats. The words are curious, breathy things.

“When a subject in a study is given insight into their flaws through their participation. Usually unexpectedly and distressingly. Often through deception,” he explains. “There are some participants, though, who experience inflicted insight and were ultimately glad to have gained it.”

“It is distressing to realize our flaws and ultimately beneficial to be made aware,” Will reflects. His eyes slip closed and his breathing is calm as he suggests, “How we learn violence, how we obey, how we wield power, these experiments’ brutal designs revealed what humans are capable of.”

Hannibal hums and feels another pulse of affection travel up the nerves running through his fingers. “I would have enjoyed having you as a student in my Social Psychology course,” he praises, slipping his fingers to rub at the nape of Will’s neck. “To know what it sounds like to hear your voice ring throughout a classroom, to experience you as you impart your thoughts on others.”

“I would have enjoyed it too,” Will agrees, though his tone takes a devious turn. He sets his book open, upside down on the bed and uncrosses his legs, turning towards him with a slight teasing smile. “Seeing you in command of a whole room’s attention knowing there are ways in which I have been in command of yours.”

Will’s hair and neck slip from his grasp as Will crawls closer; his hand skims along Will’s back as it falls away. Will’s hand touches at his chest, bare as it has been since Will pulled off his shirt and took it later for himself. He feels Will’s touch against the grain of his chest hair and, in the quiet, he can hear the scratch of coarse hair and rustle of the sheets as Will moves.

“You would just come to look at me, come catch a whiff of arousal,” Hannibal observes. He slips his hand to touch at the bare skin of Will’s lower back under his shirt and his voice takes its own mischievous tone as he says, “I thought you were a better student than that.”

Will is unflinching, pleasure and power coming so equally that they cancel each other out before they can manifest in Will’s expression. Will moves in controlled movements, shifting closer to Hannibal’s chest and farther from his hand. The shirt feels softer against his skin when Will is the one wearing it. It has been transformed from stiff and ironed to soft and wrinkled by the grip of Will’s hands as he tugged it away from Hannibal’s body and wrinkled further as Will has lain wrapped in it relaxed in bed.

“I would be hidden among the whispers,” Will breathes, mouth hovering close to Hannibal’s ear. “They could talk about you but only I would know. They’d ask each other if you have a partner at home and I’ll know that you wait in your home for me.”

Will puts his teeth to Hannibal’s earlobe just enough so that he can feel the sharp edges. Will draws air in deep through his nose where its tucked into Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal parts his teeth and lips in a silent gasp, tipping his head against Will’s. As he pulls the breath back with a steady inhale, Will’s smell accompanies the air. The sharp stink of Will’s cologne has lost some of its usual bite.

Whenever Will walks through his front door, the metallic, artificial smell clings to him like a warning, an advertisement that he’s not worth attacking or approaching. Throughout the course of the night, it absorbs ever so slightly into clothes and bedding as they lay together and rubs away through their touching and stroking. Hannibal gets hints every so often of what lies underneath. Sometimes sweet and summery, other times cold and crisp, the sheer variety of notes in Will’s scent gives the impression each time that he has failed to comprehend what it is he managed to discover the time before.

“You are unique in more ways than one, exemplary in both public and private,” Hannibal admires as he allows the wild thing to prowl over him, whispering seductive mischief in his ear. Hannibal remains lying propped against the headboard, belly up, exposed to Will’s whims as they manifest in words in his ear or touches of fingers.

“Knowing that in a full lecture, there are many ways in which I am the only one,” Will murmurs, nuzzling in pleasure against his cheek. “The only one who has seen you like this, who has worn your fancy clothes in your fancy house, who knows what it’s like to be filled with your knot and left with your cum.”

Will straddles his thigh, pressing the damp fabric between his legs against Hannibal’s thigh so that he can feel the warmth and wet soaking through Will’s underwear. Arousal unfurls and expands from deep within knowing that it is not only Will’s slick seeping out. 

“I think you would have enjoyed that too,” Will teases, resting his weight and wet firmly on him and bringing their bodies aligned as he wants them. “Knowing I’m sitting in the audience, watching you, _dripping_ , hoping it doesn’t show when class is over and I’m forced to stand.”

He can feel a moan break free from his throat and escape between his teeth. It’s been less than an hour since he was last locked sunken deep in Will. Even so, in this moment, the only thing that makes the longing that grips at his dick and rips through his spine bearable is the knowledge that he hasn’t left Will entirely. He grits his teeth at the idea that this is but a shadow of what Will’s heat could be like, never empty, never completely rid of Hannibal or his need for him.

Will’s fingers move down and under the elastic of his lounge pants to palm at where he’s has been sensitive and throbbing with Will’s every word. After a few curious, knowing touches, Will pulls back the band to expose Hannibal’s dick to the open air and he hisses when Will encircles his hand around the shaft and starts to stroke.

“They’ll see how hungry, greedy lips have left their stain on my neck,” Will continues with a lick of his lips, pulling his attention back to the words Will pours in him, encouraging Hannibal to swallow them like water down his throat. “You get the satisfaction of knowing you’ve stained me. Inside and out.”

Will’s touch lingers with every downstroke, feeling at how Hannibal’s knot longs to swell. Arousal and the presence of an Omega send pangs of desire coursing through his veins and tap into the instincts that yearn to sink in deep and lock together. His craving for Will’s wet heat leaves him sensitive to the nearly dry grip of his hand.

Will leans his forehead against Hannibal’s temple and his breath fans across his cheekbones. “It’s almost unfair that I don’t get to make sure everyone sees what I’ve done to you too.”

Words grind at Hannibal’s jaw, itch at his teeth, and tease at his tongue: words about what kind of mark Will could leave, what kind of mark he could wear openly and proudly. He swallows the words, keeps them lodged in his chest. He bides his time with a groan rumbling through his throat.

“Though I do understand what a shame it would be to tarnish your perfectly tailored veneer,” Will muses. “Maybe I should at least refresh the bruise I left.”

Will’s lips against his neck hum with the vibrations. He can feel Will grip his skin lightly but firmly between his teeth, offering another reminder of the sharp points and edges. As Will sucks at the skin, a dull pain grows sharper with the bloom of a bruise. Will doesn’t relent. He sucks long and hard, pressing himself in close, and rubbing against Hannibal’s thigh and stroking him even more insistently, touching, turning, twisting. His hands grab at Will’s hips, not controlling the movement but feeling the passion in how Will takes what he wants.

When Will seems satisfied with the bruise he will leave behind, he brings their lips together and set his teeth to biting lightly at Hannibal’s bottom lip. They exchange moans into each other’s mouths as Will grinds himself against the flex of Hannibal’s leg and strokes at a punishing pace. It’s almost jarring how his orgasm builds. He feels it as a tidal wave rises and feels the shade that it casts, a foreshadowing of when it will crash.

Crash it does, yanking moans and breath from him as he spills onto his stomach. He groans at the waste and at the scorching want set ablaze by the need to knot. His throat feels tired and ragged as he catches his breath, both from the groans that tore from throat and the words that tried to scratch their way out. He knows Will can feel tension in his muscles that ought not to be and feel when he forces them to relax.

Will flops onto his back on the bed beside him, folds his hands together on his belly, and stares at the ceiling as he murmurs, “I’m curious what would happen if you ever really said what you truly want. No metaphors or mysteries. Not about criticisms or teachings.”

“I know what I want would scare you,” Hannibal rasps.

“Probably,” Will admits with a sigh. “Inflicted insight. Have my flaws revealed to me and with it, the horrors that might lurk there.”

“I won’t be horrified,” he assures.

Will takes a deep breath and sighs again, his chest expanding and contracting with rushes of air. “The insight isn’t being inflicted on you.”

“I find myself gaining insight with every passing day.”

Will’s eyes flick away from the ceiling for a moment to study him and then promptly return when they’ve had their fill. “We are two beasts, struggling to understand what it means to be tamed,” he remarks thoughtfully.

After a moment’s pause, truth hanging in the air, Hannibal leaves to tidy himself up in the bathroom. When he returns, Will is still lying on bed, still in the vibrant blue shirt but with a new pair of underwear, no longer soaked through at the crotch. Carding fingers through his own hair, Will stares at the ceiling, eyes flitting back and forth as if tracking thoughts as they flash across his mind.

When he sits on the bed, Will moves to welcome and accommodate him. As Hannibal settles in alongside him, Will reaches for his forgotten textbook and it lands with a heavy thump on his chest when Will drops it there.

“Tell it to me instead,” Will demands quietly but firmly.

His lips twitch in a smile and he twists to set the textbook on the bedside table. He returns to lie on his back with one arm resting behind his head. Will fills the empty space, nestling close, one arm across Hannibal’s chest. He presses his lips to Will’s hair and starts his instruction.

\---

Hannibal looks up from his drawing when he hears a knock on his office door. As he approaches the door, he expects Will to appear on the other side when he opens it. Will visits often enough to feel comfortable coming and going, but caution reminds them that it’s still safer to knock. Instead of Will’s slight figure lingering in the hallway, he discovers Jack Crawford’s imposing build filling the doorway.

“Hannibal,” Jack greets. His tone is suspicious in its deference. It is a tone Hannibal remembers well from the first time they met and Jack used his knowledge of Hannibal’s self-important reputation as a foot in the door. Now, only two steps in, it seems that Jack was satisfied enough with the initial outcome to give it a repeat.

“Jack,” he greets in turn, careful not to let his suspicion show. He ushers him in with a sweep of his arm and a nod to one of his chairs. “Please come in.”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Jack comments, tapping his fingers against the corner of one of his drawings. Hannibal is fortunate that his recreation of one of Will’s hands is a few layers deep in the pile. Although he doesn’t expect Jack to remember Will’s hands as clearly as he does, Hannibal also knows better than to overlook the possibility.

“Your timing is impeccable,” Hannibal placates as he circles to his side of the desk and starts to tidy his papers and pencils. “What can I help you with?”

Jack pauses and scans his eyes around the room as if he was motivated to visit by a lighthearted whim rather than the steadfast determination he brings to his every action. “I came to ask you about a student: Will Graham.”

“I believe I already turned in my evaluation at the end of the summer as part of the program,” Hannibal replies with his own duplicitous deference.

Hannibal had presented the evaluation and its rubber stamp to Will for his approval before submitting it officially. The words were positive, but detached. The content was appropriately complimentary for a student of Will’s caliber, while including critiques consistent with Will’s stage of development. Will had flushed ever so slightly at seeing the praise written in black and white and otherwise received it with reserved confidence.

Jack nods in easy agreement, unsurprised by Hannibal’s response. “I read your evaluation and I was hoping pick your brain for more insight,” he explains. Jack’s tone exists in the exact midpoint between a request and a demand.

“I asked my grad assistant Alana to oversee Will’s work in the lab. If you’re looking for insight, she could be a good resource,” Hannibal offers, selecting words that are true enough to pass under Jack’s scrutiny.

“I will take any help I can get. Will can be a challenging student and, as _Pack Alpha_ , I am responsible for his success,” he insists, with a furrow of his brow and shake of his head. His tone evokes the image of puffing and pounding the chest. The Alpha in Jack is rankled by the Alpha in Hannibal and therefore feels the foregone pull to declare his dominion.

“Of course,” Hannibal appeases, not wanting to pose himself in Jack’s view as any sort of threat. A battle for dominion would be asinine and pointless. There is no use in competing when Will would never let himself be won. “We both hope for Will’s success. He is a bright student.”

“I believe that a guy like Will Graham knows exactly what’s going on inside of his head, which is why he doesn’t want anyone else up there,” Jack declares, a combination of frustration and admiration.

“Will appreciates privacy and autonomy,” he replies. It is an easy side-step that offers Will those very same traits.

“He doesn’t appreciate being poked at, so I’m trying to take a less direct approach.”

“Poking at me and hoping that, through me, Will pokes back,” Hannibal infers. He makes sure his inflection is as inoffensive as possible, bordering even on complimentary. It’s as close to a recognition of Jack’s impression of Hannibal’s influence as he will risk.

“At our last meeting, he seemed to value your opinion.”

“Will values my opinion as I value his.”

Jack’s expression takes a curious turn as he lightly jokes, “I’ve never known you to have a gentle touch.”

“Nor should you,” Hannibal agrees. “In his work in my lab, Will has never needed a gentle touch.”

“Why do you think Will continued on after the summer program concluded?” Jack asks, some of his disappointment tainting his curiosity.

Hannibal considers his words, counting on his consideration to appear thoughtful and reflective rather than strategic. He looks at Jack with genuine, direct, unwavering eye contact as he explains, “What Will has is superior perception: Pure empathy, attuned scenting, insightful observation, all of which certainly translate to a particular aptitude for clinical and social psychology.”

“Couldn’t they also be used forensically?”

“Yes. I have told Will as much,” Hannibal answers honestly. “I will admit that I am biased towards psychology, but concede that it is ultimately Will’s decision.”

“Will is only a first-year student,” Jack argues knowingly, an argument he’s no doubt used many times. “He might not be fully equipped to make his decision. He could explore his options.” 

Hannibal continues to hold his eye contact and tries to elicit in Jack feelings of understanding and commiseration. “I know you are accustomed to being listened to, Jack, but Will also has an aptitude for breaking the mold.”

Jack sighs and nods his head in reluctant agreement. Hannibal smiles at a conversation delayed and disguises it as the gracious smile of a welcoming friend. 

“It has been too long since I last had you and Bella for dinner,” he encourages.

“Yes, it has,” Jack agrees solemnly. “Bella hasn’t felt well enough to go out.”

Hannibal’s smile turns sympathetic as he promises, “When you are ready for company, I will be sure to prepare something comforting and bring it to your home.”

Hannibal can see authentic gratitude shine in Jack’s eyes. It is a reminder of the pointlessness of anything adversarial. Jack can ask as many questions as he likes and seek comfort in Hannibal’s insight. Hannibal has enough awareness and self-control to maintain his friendship with Jack and connection with Will despite how dichotomous they may seem.

\---

Hannibal blinks his eyes open on a Saturday morning and, as he often does, finds Will asleep curled against his back. Regardless of how they settle into bed and fall asleep together, he rises in the morning to the feel of Will’s face tucked against his spine between his shoulder blades, long, curled hair tickling at his skin, and Will’s arm curled around his ribs, hand splayed across his sternum.

Hannibal had gone to bed after Will the night before. As the surge of stress and hard work fades for Will with the end of midterms, it then begins for Hannibal. The assignments that his students endured sleepless nights and anxiety in their toil to complete are now his responsibility to conclude. He delegates much of the grading to his teaching assistants but he has to double-check their work to ensure consistency. He provides his TAs with rubrics but he has to verify that the grades aren’t increased by Alana’s sympathy or decreased by Frederick’s desperate need to show off.

When he joined Will in bed, Will seemed sunken deep into the blankets and pillows, surrounded and cushioned by their soft comfort. Hannibal had quietly slipped himself under the covers and, as careful as he could, wound Will into his arms. He turns just as carefully now to face Will. The sight of him nestled, warm, safe, and secure pulls at the blood in his veins.

Whether quietly so or overtly, Will is so often tense. When slumbering, he can still be coiled tight, flushed with sweat, or shifting with uneasy dreams. However, when he tucks Will into his embrace and places soft touches against his skin, Will’s whimpers quiet and his trembles ease. Even in times when Will has woken up _too_ warm and a touch disoriented, he has been soft with sleep, so much easier to soothe, enclose in his arm, and curl in close, so much more unguarded in his response. Hannibal revels in the hums and sighs that have passed from Will’s lips as he lightly tips him into the circle of his arms or pets away the hair around his face.

The urge to hold Will close comes easily to him. The desire to appreciate the presence of him in the press of their bodies together arises often. He usually restrains himself and tries his best not to wake Will. He doesn’t want to disturb him, wants to give Will all the care he is allowed without burdening him with the need to be conscious.

Before he rises to prepare breakfast, he allows himself to lean over to cup at Will’s cheek with one hand and kiss his pliant, slightly open lips. He lingers for a moment longer, relishing in the closeness and ease, when he feels those clever lips twitch with awareness.

Will’s eyes blink open lazily and gently but his mouth has a mischievous turn as he murmurs, “You have my permission to have your way with me, you know?” 

He hums, laying his head on the pillow, not quite touching Will but almost. He feels how Will seems to create an electric charge in the air with his conscious presence, a magnetic energy that pulls him close.

“I had hoped,” Hannibal admits, “but it is something that a person needs to hear to be sure.” 

“You can be sure,” Will reassures. “I’ve thought about it too. You’re different when you’re asleep.”

“Am I?” Hannibal asks encouragingly as tilts his head deeper into his pillow.

“You purr,” he explains, lifting a hand to press his fingers against Hannibal’s throat as if feeling for the mechanisms that allow purrs to occur. It is a slightly uncomfortable steady pressure, dull ache that elicits a yearning for the simple contentment that inspires a purr. “I felt the rumble in your throat. It shakes you, as if reverberating through a crack in your restraint and widening the fault line as it shakes.”

He curls one hand around Will’s forearm, holding it flat against his chest. Will allows him to slip the other arm under his neck to wrap around his back and rest a hand along the side of his ribs. He feels the strength in the bones that protect the air in Will’s lungs and blood in his heart.

“How did you feel?” Hannibal whispers.

“At the time?” Will began, considering his options with a deep breath. “Uncertain.”

Hannibal smiles in proud satisfaction, curling his fingers tighter against Will’s ribcage. “And now?”

Will’s eyes pierce him with a perceptive intensity as the mischievous smile creeps back to turn his lips. “Powerful,” Will identifies with certainty. “It makes me feel like I want to appreciate you too. When you’re in that open state.”

Hannibal smiles wide and honest enough to show a sliver of the edge of his teeth. He raises his head to press a kiss to Will’s brow and then the bridge of his nose. “You are a source of constant surprise,” he remarks with awe. 

“I know that’s not a complaint.” 

“No, it is not,” he agrees easily. He releases his hold on Will’s forearm to instead brush a hand over Will’s hair, wild as it is from sleep. “There is a surprise I hope you will welcome.”

Will blinks up at him curiously, his expression questioning enough to make words irrelevant. His curiosity has a slight reluctant tinge when Hannibal moves to separate them and, in the process, nudge Will to leave the comfort of the bed. As air has started to chill with the autumn, Will has sought comfort in softness and warmth and created a partial nest in the form of an intertwining of blankets on the bed. He urges Will to his feet and hands him one of Hannibal’s sweaters as an offering of replacement comfort and warmth. Will accepts it easily, slipping the soft material over his head and arms and allowing the hem to fall down around the top of his thighs.

Will obligingly walks beside him out of the bedroom and down the hall. He can feel Will’s curiosity bloom and grow as they approach the study and he can see it in the scrunch in between Will’s brows as he opens the door. He watches as Will takes in the sight of the study’s newest feature. Near Hannibal’s desk sits another. It matches in quality and motif: a beautiful wood, a vintage studiousness. It is the kind of expense and quality that reflects value. Such a purchase is not bought without consideration. It is the kind of substantial possession that holds permanence. Such a thing is not moved into a room with the intention to move again soon after. 

“I wanted to dispel your doubts once and for all,” Hannibal offers as an explanation when Will looks back at him.

Will’s brows unfurrow and raise in intrigue. “My doubts about what?”

“Me,” he says candidly. “I want you to believe in the best of me, just as I believe in the best of you.”

Will drags his fingers along the desk surface, of course not even a single speck of dust to find. He knocks on the surface with his knuckles and the sound it creates is solid and sure.

“Rely on your selfishness to know that you give because you are willing. Rely on your diligence to know that you do not invest without longevity,” Will recalls. Will takes one more look at the detail and craftsmanship of the desk and then examines Hannibal with a similar degree of study. Hannibal does not flinch away from Will’s examination and, as reward, he is gifted an awareness of the moment when the gears that turn behind Will’s eyes click into a different rhythm. “Rely on your affection to know you are willing,” Will proclaims. “Rely on your investment to know you are committed.”

A knowing smile grows across Will’s face as he turns and braces his arms to lift and sit on the desk surface. It is an action that might have been rude if it didn’t call to mind such cherished memories. 

\---

Will feels soaked to the bone. He got caught in an autumn rainstorm that, while not cold enough for snow, sends shivers along his skin and jolts that shake his frame. He opens Hannibal’s front door with unsteady hands and fingers that have lost some of their feeling. His hair and clothes are plastered to his skin and, even after pulling off his shoes and peeling away his jacket, he drips and leaves little puddles on the floor behind him.

Will finds his professor where he knows he will and Hannibal is unsurprised to see him there, even soaking wet. His professor’s expression is mostly neutral and a little fond. Will can tell from the teasing twist of his lips that he must be thinking about how Will hasn’t even bothered to own an umbrella. Hannibal places the knife in his hand on the counter and cups Will’s nearly ice-cold cheek in his warm palm while he wraps his other hand around chilled fingers. When Hannibal urges him upstairs to warm up in the shower, Will doesn’t allow himself to be stunned by the novelty.

Since Hannibal gifted him a desk, Will has tried to make himself more comfortable and more at home. The irony, of course, being that he has never known a home like Hannibal’s. He has always had access to a shower, but never one so clean, so immaculate. He has known homecooked meals, but not perfectly set dining room tables. He has always had a bed, but never one in front of a fireplace and never one he shared.

There are still times when they mix business with pleasure and do work in bed, but Will has used his desk when Hannibal has used his. His overheating laptop whirred against the smooth wooden surface and the variety of displeased expressions that cycled on Hannibal’s face when he looked up from his silent tablet make Will suspect that he knows what the next gift he receives might be. Will somehow finds he almost doesn’t mind.

Thawed out by the shower, warmth radiates in the blood in his veins and his stomach pangs for the warmth offered by good food. He follows the delicious smells pouring from the kitchen – wine, roasting meat seasoned with carefully selected herbs, and the smell of chocolate in the air as a promise of dessert. The smells are strong, but not nauseating. They add to the warmth pleasingly rather than a sickly flush.

He doesn’t try to help with cooking. He could. He has before. But he doesn’t need to. He is content to watch and Hannibal is content with being watched. Hannibal is perfectly happy to have him pleasantly and passively listen as he describes cooking techniques and their origins and accompanying anecdotes.

After dinner, when they are both full and content, they lounge together on the couch. Hannibal lies propped up slightly against the arm and Will lies propped up against him. Pressed against Hannibal’s chest and bracketed between his legs, his professor’s hands spread strong and wide over his back.

Feeling those hands rub broad, steady strokes and smooth circles, Will hums contentedly against Hannibal’s skin. Will’s arms wrap loosely around his waist, fingers curled in the fabric of his professor’s shirt, coming slowly untucked with delighted, patient, little tugs of his fingers. Will lets his head fall to the space joining Hannibal’s neck to his shoulder. Hannibal tips his face against Will’s neck in turn and Will feels himself curled deeper into his hold.

“Will,” Hannibal utters, pausing as he pushes his nose against the skin of Will’s neck. “When was your last heat?”

“What?” Will replies distractedly.

Hannibal’s hands settle at the dip in his back as he asks, “Have you had a heat without me?”

Will huffs an easy laugh. He feels the warm air brush against Hannibal’s neck and flow back across his lips. “Are you getting possessive?” he teases.

“No, _Will_ ,” Hannibal emphasizes, “there’s a change in your scent.”

“I’m not going into heat,” he insists, though confused by the accusation. He hasn’t felt any of the preheat symptoms – no cramping, no pain. He doesn’t feel like his insides have been replaced by an empty cavern that threatens to consume itself. 

“Not that kind of change,” Hannibal states thoughtfully with another inhale through his nose, shifting his nose back and forth along his neck in a way that Will imagines looks like how Hannibal smells his wine before drinking. “It’s the smell in the air on the first warm day after a long winter, like turned soil and honeysuckle, like something started anew, something planted, something growing.” 

Will wrinkles his brow in confusion and shifts in his professor’s arms to look at his face. Hannibal’s expression is eerily neutral. It is the kind of neutral that is sympathetic but not particularly demonstrative. It is the perfect amount of blankness for others to project onto and thereby reveal themselves far beyond what Hannibal himself reveals.

“What are you talking about?” Will questions warily.

“When was your last heat?” Hannibal deflects.

“Before I left Louisiana,” he says, still realizing the answer as he says it. 

Will usually forgets about his heat as much as he can. It’s not because he’s resentful. He just doesn’t see the point in thinking too much about it. Only happening once every three months, he can put it out of his mind most of the time until he is reminded of its approaching by the unmistakable grip of preheat. When he thinks about it, he realizes he should have felt the painful ache twisting at his core leading into the week of midterms. He should have needed to ask his professors for extensions on his tests and papers.

Technically, professors are supposed to be flexible where heats are concerned. Regardless, he could only imagine the indignant huffs and eye rolls he might have gotten from some of them. If Hannibal didn’t stand to potentially benefit from his heat in some way, Will might imagine his disapproval in amongst his colleagues’. Hannibal is the type to view almost everything that gets too much in the way of working as intolerably inconvenient.

He would have spent the heat with Hannibal, he knows. He knows it as well as he knows Hannibal would want to, would wish he could insist on it. Instead, that week he’d lain in Hannibal’s bed sweaty and flushed, but not from heat. His words of seduction about being filled and dripping had nothing to do with his body being thrown into overdrive. He’d whispered into Hannibal’s ear and thought nothing of consequences.

“Wouldn’t you have noticed sooner? The scent?” he asks, his voice wavering.

“It can be difficult to smell anything beyond your horrible aftershave. I’ve been smelling something different, something faint, for a while, but it was such a soft whisper that I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it,” Hannibal explains, leaning in and sniffing at Will’s neck, no longer pliant in pleasure but held rigid in place from stress. “Now that you’ve showered, the aftershave is not as strong and other notes can shine through.”

“You’re serious,” Will says needlessly. He can feel Hannibal’s the desperate sincerity like a downpour – crisp, gentle, and cool scent, the faintest glint of wetness in his eye, the tension in his mouth. He could sense it just as clearly as he could sense the dread dripping down his spine.

His blood sinks, seeming leached from his body, as he has thinks about just how little thought he’d given protection. Reliability is supposed to be the payoff for one week of all-consuming heat. Regardless of how frenzied and uncontrollable a heat feels, Omega fertility cycles are more predictable than Beta ones. As Betas evolved away from a week of being indisposed, the effects spread out to include more than a concentrated event. It is incredibly rare that an Omega gets pregnant outside of a heat, so rare that it feels almost impossible.

He should have known the difference between it _feeling_ impossible and it _being_ impossible.

The dread turns to fluster and uncertainty, feeling bled dry makes his head spin. His throat gives an agonized clench and he feels the sick, nauseous, like he has at varying intensities for weeks. He is muddled and lost and off-kilter, emotional whiplash.

“I have to go,” he blurts with a tremble breaking through. He feels his belly against Hannibal’s like he can feel every nerve and every cell where they touch. 

“Will,” Hannibal states carefully as Will pushes off his lap clumsily. He can feel calm, discerning eyes watching him fumble to fix his clothes. He hears the attempt at placation in Hannibal’s tone as he says, “At least let me give you a ride back to the dorms.”

“The bus is fine,” he disagrees, sensing Hannibal’s disappointment and concern.

The sight of pity glinting in Hannibal’s eyes and his scent – cool and familiar, but a little sharp at the edge – chafe at his skin. He tries to hide his flinch in an adjustment of how his shirt hangs on his shoulders. Will acutely feels Hannibal’s uncertainty occurring simultaneously with his own, an echo chamber reverberating through his skull and into his very bones. In the noise, Will is more uncertain about his own uncertainty that he is Hannibal’s. His head spins desperately to understand.

The only thing he can definitively latch onto is the knowledge that Hannibal’s uncertainty comes from hesitation about how much he should push. With only this to cling to, Will decides to save him the strain.

“I’ll see you again tomorrow for lab,” he whispers, with the twitch of his lips into a half-hearted smile. He bends over to place a short, affectionate kiss on his Hannibal’s unexpecting lips and hums in appeasement. “You can drive me home then.”

Will can see a piece of Hannibal’s resolve crumble slightly. He sees it in a tear that threatens to spill and the sight of it pumps the last bit of blood from his chest. The lines around Hannibal’s eyes and mouth grow deeper as if he’s been drained too. It’s merciful, he thinks as he quickly turns away and slips out the door, to save Hannibal the strain of having to talk at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra big thank you to everyone who has commented! I have been feeling generally lacking in energy and motivation recently and looking forward to y'all's comments helped me to keep working on this chapter. I appreciate every comment and they really do help to keep me writing.


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal arrives to find an empty desk the following day. As minutes turn to an hour and Will goes from simply late to absent, Hannibal feels disquiet meld with the disappointment that has settled deep in his stomach since Will left the day before. Distress may not be the exact word to describe what he feels when he catches Alana her on her way to the waiting room to get a client and asks her where Will is. Hurt may not be the exact word to describe how he feels when she provides her quick response: _“He said he was going to the doctor.”_ He knows he wouldn’t be able to ask follow up questions even if he had the time. Even if he had more than a moment and even if he could find his voice, he couldn’t ask for details about a student’s doctor visits. He can’t be prying into students’ lives.  
  
He tries to use observing sessions to distract himself from the disquiet, disappointment, and, perhaps, dismay. He listens to sessions and watches body language. He takes notes to provide feedback and supervision. He watches Alana provide the study treatment to the Omega woman Frederick struggled with. He rolls his neck in irritation at the thought that reminds him of the conversation he had in this room with Will about this client. He forces his posture straighter to resist the pull of the memory of what had happened afterwards.  
  
He wishes he could say confidently that he knows what will happen next. Typically, he can see how actions and words can progress. He can conceptualize a problem and its solution. He can visualize what steps are necessary to accomplish a goal. Will has a habit of making things more difficult to predict with certainty and it is too dangerous to contemplate getting his hopes up.  
  
After the sessions are finished for the day, Hannibal tidies as he always does, switching off lights and sound machines and making sure all doors are locked. As he turns over the keys in his hand to find the last one to use on the door to Bedelia’s office, the woman herself politely clears her throat and shifts on her feet loud enough to be noticed but quiet enough to be discreet.  
  
“What a pleasant surprise,” he says. It is something polite as he studies the curved line of her mouth, slight squint in her eyes, and tip of her chin.  
  
“It does not seem that you find it all that pleasant,” she observes, the squint in her eyes proving itself to be as understanding and superior as he thought. “What’s on your mind, Hannibal?”  
  
“Seems hard to find words today,” he admits with a lick of his lips and downturn of his eyes.  
  
“Would you like to talk about Will Graham?” she asks directly. “I know you did not heed my warning.”  
  
“It may not be wise. You made your stance clear last time we discussed it.”  
  
“I know you believe that criticism can function as proof of a genuine desire to see a person bettered,” Bedelia remarks. “I will not promise to offer unflinching support, but you will have a listening ear and frank counsel – both of which, I know you sorely need no matter how you may object. ”   
  
“Were you curious what would happen? What Will would do. What I would do. What would happen if we were to exceed your expectations?”  
  
“You let him see you,” she infers, sounding a touch surprised.  
  
“I let him see enough.”  
  
“Nothing so simple could prompt such melancholy,” Bedelia considers aloud. “Unless there was rejection.”  
  
“Rejection hangs like the blade of a guillotine.”  
  
“Did you ask him to bond with you?”  
  
“No,” he replies and nearly gives a laugh at the idea that it could be something so simple. “I wouldn’t do something so foolhardy.”  
  
“You wouldn’t do it, but you would want to. Will Graham has the ability to scent others emotions, _sense them_ , the likes of which is usually exclusive to the act of being bonded. In a sense, it is as if he is bonded to everyone to some degree,” she conceptualizes pointedly. “Knowing he is in some ways bonded to everyone could make you feel _insignificant,_ particularly when you’re denied being bonded to him in actuality.”  
  
“We are connected in many ways, even if not in the form of a bite,” he says, partially lacking the defensiveness it ought to have, distorted by the conflicted, instinctual pride.  
  
“You are covetous, Hannibal,” Bedelia admonishes. “The possessive lover of beautiful things.”  
  
His hackles raise at the idea that Will is not his to hold and he knows that is exactly the impact Bedelia intended to have. Usually, he would hold that in appreciation. He values the infliction of well-honed skill and Bedelia has a surplus. Today, any give is perilous.   
  
“Human motivation can be little more than lucid greed,” he argues. “What is the difference between you and I, Bedelia? Is it something so simple as the difference between action and inaction?”  
  
“That decision is not so paltry as you seem to believe,” she counters, another admonishment. “Harm reduction is taking the effort to minimize harmful effects given the recognition that there may be no way to achieve complete absence.”  
  
“Better to live true to yourself for an instant than never know it.”  
  
“Some psychologists are so hungry for insight that they may try to manufacture it,” Bedelia reminds him, her voice soft and almost sympathetic despite its criticism. “If we keep track of incoming and outgoing intentions, would you say that Will Graham is en route to commit to you as you lay in wait to commit to him?”  
  
Knowing this question needs no verbalized answer, she steps away and takes her leave. They both know the answer isn’t for her and, even if it were, she likely already knows it. Bedelia has always highlighted how young Will is and how Hannibal ought to temper his expectations in response. The things Hannibal might wish for came with a breathe of experiences Will had yet to have. He should perhaps not hold it against Will that he wanted to have those experiences too.  
  
With Bedelia disappeared down the hallway, Hannibal returns himself to the task of retiring for the night. He considers returning home to the comfort of a well-cooked meal and fine wine when he is interrupted by another set of footsteps. This time it is not the muffled clack of high heels that pulls his attention but the faint shuffle of boots. Instead of the coiffed blonde hair and fitted dresses, finds instead a sweater and jeans.  
  
“ _Will_ ,” he breathes in contained surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you.”  
  
Will smiles hesitantly and looks away at the wall as he explains with a sharp laugh, “I had to wait until everyone left. I didn’t wanted anyone giving me flack for playing hooky.”  
  
“Alana told me you went to the doctor,” Hannibal announces, a leading declaration.  
  
Will nods, looking quickly down at the dingy carpet and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I had planned to. I went to the bus stop, took a seat, and just…watched the busses go by. For hours, I kept meaning to get up, but I just _stayed_.”  
  
“Would you like me to take you?” he asks, strategically.  
  
Will snaps his attention towards him. His eyes no longer linger or avoid and instead lock on with the intensity that a microscope gives a glass slide. “What would you like?” Will asks pointedly.  
  
“That’s irrelevant,” he answers simply.  
  
Without clairvoyance, Bedelia could not have known the scope of the circumstances for her advice. However, he would like to believe even she would know that he is aware of the limits of his ability to persuade and dictate. He knows he cannot have authority over what Will does with his body. Persuasion may exist in their emotional relationship, but certainly not in their physical one.  
  
“I would like it if you would tell me,” Will says sincerely, intentionally shaping every word as he says it.  
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything other than what you think is best.”  
  
Will gives him a piercing, tender look that challenges Hannibal’s ability to keep his body language and facial expressions in check as he usually would. His best attempts at calculated responses are failing him in Will’s knowing gaze. There are downsides to his desire to keep this perceptive creature close by, namely putting himself in the crosshairs of astute eyes and a discerning sense of smell.  
  
He manages to harness the desire to squirm into a tense shift of his neck and, in turn, Will harnesses his tenderness in a hand placed against his taut cheek. Will gives a sudden pull that brings their lips together and Hannibal hesitates for a moment in surprise as Will’s softer, more pliant lips press against his rigid ones. Just as he starts to adjust, Will shifts his tender hand away from his cheek and Hannibal feels instead a hold at the hair at the base of his skull. Will’s hold is not painful or intimidating, but firm and determined.  
  
“You can’t scare me when I’m already scared,” Will informs him with a smirk that is equal parts sweet and dark. Hannibal keeps himself still as Will holds him just barely on the other side of the line between constrained distance and intimate closeness. The smirk makes Will’s lips and cheeks look particularly lovely as he commands, “Tell me what _you_ want, you ridiculous thing.”  
  
Hannibal feels the hold of his hair and knows the pointed tug that would come with any shift. Even breathing deeply gives the impression of running the risk of shifting too much. The act fills his nose with the punishing smell of Will’s cologne, an even stronger presence than usual. While the cologne has nearly always presented as a constant nuisance, Will now reeks of it. Naturally, he understands the reason and the purpose but understanding does nothing to dull an aching disappointment that he’d only been able to capture a glimmer of what lies underneath. With such quick discovery and retreat, he barely had the opportunity to study and catalogue the scent and can only pull from his memory the faintest recollection of a blossoming flower, small and slowly unfurling.  
  
He focuses on that little bud and considers the cold frame and sweet soil that allows it to grow as he admits, “I would be grateful to have a pup with you.”  
  
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Will breathes, softly but strong enough to shift the air. Hannibal blinks his eyes open in surprise, which seems to make a subdued, lopsided smile cross Will’s lips. “Who knew you could be so easy to please?”  
  
The simplicity of the response raises the hairs not held in Will’s grip. A resistant creature suddenly giving in should not prompt relief. Situations too good to be true can only appropriately prompt suspicion. Feeling easily reassured by the simplicity would be naïve of him. He can identify the reflective behavior in them both – polarized away from their typical demeanors by starkly atypical circumstance. He can sense in himself a dithering like the whirring of overworked machinery just as he can sense how much easier it may feel for Will to exist on the plane of lesser seriousness, the same plane he uses to remember his father fondly. Eventually, the plane will crash.  
  
“I know what I want,” Hannibal states carefully. “It is perhaps the case that I should not expect to get it.”  
  
“I thought therapists knew better than to use _shoulds_ ,” Will challenges. “I told you we were doing what you want and now you’ve changed your mind.”  
  
“Perhaps I am curious why you changed yours,” Hannibal responds. “Only hours ago, you intended to make a different choice.”  
  
“Your voice is what I needed to hear to decide,” Will says, eyes as open and expressive as Hannibal has ever seen. “It is only important now that I’ve decided that I will decide, will keep _making_ decisions. All I need to know now is that I will do it even if I don’t yet know how.”  
  
Hannibal smiles as open and honest as perhaps he ever has. “I have huge faith in you, Will. I always have.”

  
\---

  
Having Will return to his home is like seeing him anew. There is new meaning in the absence of certain shadows.  
  
A bond is like pregnancy in that it can be achieved outside of heat but takes differently. It is perhaps the difference between sating an aching craving and eating when one isn’t hungry. The food can be delicious all the same but not nearly as satisfying. To achieve something so momentous without knowledge of doing so denies them the opportunity to revel as they ought to.  
  
They will need to get definitive confirmation of their growing pup’s existence, as well as insight into just how long the pup has been growing. Hannibal has had his own calculation since the moment of their realization. He is certain that the first trimester has passed and it’s not feasible for the midpoint to have come and gone. It would be difficult to make any other guesses with any level of certainty. Even so, the newness of the idea leaves him with the feeling that every day of every week is significant and to have so many in the past casts the future in a starker light.  
  
Hannibal has long felt a sense of pride at providing for and sustaining Will with the meals he prepares. For many weeks, he has complimented himself for nourishing him. Now he can only feel grateful that he hasn’t felt an inclination to prepare meals with raw fish or anything unpasteurized in recent history. Unknowing has presented so many opportunities for mistakes – mistakes that would have occurred from a lack of imagination about what could be possible.   
  
“Have you been craving particular foods?” he asks curiously as he begins preparing their dinner.  
  
“I’ve been eating a lot of pizza with Beverly. Ice cream, too,” Will admits absent-mindedly. “I figured it was just normal college kid stuff, too lacking in refinement for you.”  
  
“I will try to accommodate you to the best of my ability.”  
  
“There’s no question of your cooking skills,” Will teases with a raise of his brow and a mischievous smile.  
  
“The standards I have for quality are particularly crucial now,” he states firmly.  
  
“The pup hasn’t been hurt by pizza,” Will counters, maintaining his smirk. He steals away a piece of sliced pepper – perhaps in some way indulgent, even if he’s being somewhat disruptive of the process. “They come from more resilient stuff than that.”  
  
Hannibal feels a smile bloom in him as if breaking roots through concrete. “How quickly we form attachments to something that does not yet exist,” he muses.  
  
“I’m not attached,” Will sighs, his smile going a sort of lopsided. “I’m only _anticipating_ attachment.”  
  
“When have you decided you’ll need to make your next decision?”  
  
“Some of the decisions were made with the last one,” he explains, grabbing away another piece of vegetable. “Other decisions may come after the semester ends.”   
  
“Am I to be allowed to know which decisions have been made?”  
  
“I’ll have to go to an Omega clinic to see a doctor. I’ll fill out the paperwork. I’ll talk to my dad when I go back to Louisiana,” Will lists off blandly.  
  
Hannibal knows which decisions then remain unspoken: what to do about Will’s future and Jack Crawford’s power and control over it. He would add bonding to that list and expects that Will would not.  
  
“I know it will be difficult for you to accept further support,” Hannibal articulates. “I also know that it will be necessary.”  
  
“I know,” Will agrees with a nod of his head and recites with the quality of a mantra: “Investment and commitment.”  
  
“And affection,” he reminds him intently.  
  
“Are there limits to how much you can invest?” Will asks curiously, casting his surveying eyes around the room.  
  
“Not in my view,” he replies honestly.  
  
If Will dared to ask if there were limits to his affection, Hannibal recognizes that his answer might be the same: _Not in my view._ Will doesn’t dare, still won’t even now.  
  
With a nod of his head and blink of his eyes away to the countertop, Will seems to consider. Hannibal’s attempts at conversation peter out with clipped responses to open-ended questions. As Hannibal realizes the futility, he allows silence to descend and finds no discomfort. This is a transformation that Hannibal is comforted by, the familiarity of an expectation come to pass.  
  
Will’s levity continues to peel away in layers as he peels back the paper folded around the fish they have for dinner. The smirk becomes a memory and his face takes a tense impassivity. He can see the muscles in Will’s jaw held tight and how they reluctantly loosen to take bites of food and drinks of water.  
  
As Will peels away layers, Hannibal dons them. There is a rankling in him that rears it head when remembering his displays of vulnerability. It claws at his chest and throat with nails sharpened by shame and embarrassment. Hannibal has freely and easily provided meals. He has given Will companionship, offered him a place in his bed, and bestowed a gift upon him as a token of intention and commitment. He has doled out truth and honesty and, by his standards, generously portioned his openness. They all pale in comparison to the course they have set themselves on and the powerful, burning sun on the horizon.  
  
As Will said, it is an attachment to an idea, a concept. It is a shift in perspective rather than a perceptible change in tangible reality. There is the knowledge that weeks-long sickness comes not only from Will’s superior senses but also fluctuations like ripples cascading outwards. It is the knowledge that with every passing moment what is now just a concept is changing its environment and with that change there comes changes in their environment outside of it: changing muscle and skin and, with it, risks and consequences.  
  
Their silence continues through dinner, punctuated by the ting of silverware against plates and deliberate breaths, until Will finishes his meal and dismisses himself to the study. Once the dishes are done and table put in order, Hannibal joins him there. Will has lit the fire across from where he sits on the couch with elbows propped against his knees and hands clasped tightly together. The warm light flickers and casts a glow against his face, creating shadows in the divots to be found in Will’s conflicted expression.  
  
“Do you feel obligated?” Will asks, nearly a whisper.  
  
“Yes,” he answers honestly, knowing nothing else would be tolerated. He looks at Will, so young and conflicted, and continues, “I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility.”  
  
“Do you have any regrets?” Will asks, with the same inflection and tone.  
  
Hannibal takes his seat next to Will on the couch, the shift in weight does nothing to shift Will. He puts a careful, hesitant hand on Will’s shoulder as he expresses, “With every choice lies the possibility of regret. However, if I choose not to do something, it is usually for a good reason.”  
  
Will blinks his eyes in Hannibal’s direction. His eyes are curious and intent as he asks, “Have you ever been a father?”  
  
“I was to my sister. She was not my child, but she was my charge. She taught me so much about myself,” he confesses. He pauses to allows a rush of emotion to flow over him as he discloses, “Her name was Mischa.”  
  
“Was?” Will repeats, the phrasing as a question makes the attention feel softer and, for that, Hannibal is grateful.  
  
“She’s dead,” he confirms, tight with the grip at his chest that takes hold of him whenever he touches on that particular memory. “The most important aspect of a successful recovery is recognizing that life will never be the same. My life was altered when I was taught the consequences of lacking control.”  
  
“This is probably the most out of control I’ve ever felt,” Will says, perhaps in self-deprecation, perhaps lamenting. “I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it.”  
  
“Even in circumstances which occur outside of what is expected, there remain opportunities for control,” he reassures, gripping his hand tighter, firmer, stronger at Will’s shoulder. “Your inner voice can provide a method of taking control of your behavior.”  
  
Hannibal threads his fingers into the hair at the back of Will’s neck. Will shivers as he pulls his fingers through – a sign of life in a work of art. Working his fingers through again and again, he sends pulses of trembles down Will’s neck and across his shoulders. He presses his lips to the wild curl of Will’s hair at his temple and breaths in what he can catch of Will’s scent beyond cologne and smoke from the fire.  
  
“You must allow yourself to be intimate with your instincts, Will,” he whispers against the soft strands.  
  
Will leans into the press of his lips, nuzzles and nudges with his nose and cheek to bring their lips together. Will kisses him as if by memory – a kiss that comes with the comfort of having had many before. It is not lazy; it has not sacrificed passion. It is the familiarity found from enthusiastic study and repetition.  
  
Hannibal’s heart stutters in his chest as Will pulls away, all too painfully similar to their last moment of intimacy together on this couch. However, where hands were then frantic with surprise and panic, they now tremble with need and want; where they shook with the rush to flee, they now tremble with desperate craving.  
  
Just as the memory of their last piece of intimacy swirls between them, so does the memory of their first. There is a metal clinking with the unfastening of a belt and thumps with the weight of pants, belt, and shoes piling on the floor. Then there is Will nearly seated in his lap, still in his thick sweater, left hanging loosely for now. He uses gentle but firm fingers in Will’s hair to tip his head and expose his neck, eyeing for a moment the bruises purple and yellowing that decorate across his skin. With his lips and teeth held with casual intent against Will’s neck, he can feel the vibration of Will’s moan as it tears from his throat.  
  
He allows his touch to whisper words of praise across Will’s skin. The lips at Will’s neck press and pull with appreciation and adoration. Hannibal drifts a hand along Will’s thigh and twists between his legs to touch where Will is warm, wet, and dripping with slick. He brushes with his thumb around the outside of Will’s clit and strokes with two fingers to gather slick. He feels the reflexive clench of Will’s hole against his fingertips just as he feels Will’s hands part fabric to touch and stroke at his cock. Will’s body allows one finger and then two until slick drips down the back of his hand and down his wrist and Hannibal aches and throbs in Will’s grip.  
  
When Will’s hand settles sure and firm around the base of his cock, Hannibal knows to pull back his hand to join his other in sliding against Will’s thighs and grasping lightly at his ass. Will sinks slow and sure down onto his cock, taking him in deep. Pleasure fizzles in his veins, spreads through his arteries, concentrated where blood pools and gathers. Will then sinks deeper, bone-deep, settling his weight not on straining, eager knees but heavy and languid, seated in Hannibal’s lap. Pleasure settles bone deep in Hannibal too, fading from a fizzle to a soft blurring at the edges as Will tucks himself back in against his chest with his face against Hannibal’s throat.  
  
Arousal and pleasure encase and entwine them without the heavy thrum of desire. They derive intimacy from the closeness and connection. He imagines Will can feel his pulse thrumming in the quiet as he imagines feeling the air fill and deflate Will’s lungs. It is as if all his organs crush upwards into his ribcage, pulled up by muscles clenching and fighting for space. It’s a bracing feeling, while also a pleasant one — or, rather, one that he knows comes from acute pleasantness.  
  
That acute, crushing pleasantness receives a jolt in the form of a rumbling vibratory sound and sensation that is not his own: a purr, powerful and steady. Like fault lines and broken stone at the mercy of earthquakes, Will purring inspires awe. He winds his arms around Will tighter, slips them up and under Will’s sweatshirt, and presses his palms wide against his skin.   
  
Will tightens and clenches every so often to keep the arousal thrumming just enough to sustain them, but when sitting in near stillness together no longer suffices, Hannibal curls an arm around Will and carefully, kindly shifts him away. Hannibal tucks his cock away again in a perfunctory way, puts out the fire, and guides Will towards the bedroom with tender, affectionate touches.  
  
Once inside, he strips away Will’s sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath it. Will climbs into bed and settles in to watch him as he undresses. Will remains settled as Hannibal crawls to him, careful in how he looms over Will and how much of his weight presses against him. He moves to lie next to Will’s side and encourages him to turn away with deliberate caresses from hip to knee and elbow to shoulder. Will raises his knee easily and grabs at his pillow with his hand and Hannibal mirrors him, tucking himself close against Will’s back and aligning himself with every turn and angle.   
  
It only takes a few touches and strokes to feed the arousal and pleasure that never fully faded and return them to as they were before. He grinds himself against Will, hardening with the friction at his cock, the skin of Will’s shoulder held between his teeth, and Will’s moans, uttered at the touch of his fingers against Will’s clit. Hannibal feels the same deep satisfaction when he sinks back in, only amplified by a surge in desire. He thrusts softly and slowly, a back and forth just strong enough to keep a steady hum between them, but with the same lack of urgency as they shared before. The unhurried pace allows his hands to wander and appreciate Will in body with the consideration that he appreciates Will in mind.  
  
A touch to Will’s lower belly causes a momentary, startled response to shake through Will’s body. Will sighs a faltering moan and pushes himself further against Hannibal’s body as he holds Will close, smoothing his hand wide and open over a shallow curve.  
  
“You are a marvelous creature, Will,” he vows, a satisfied rumble that pulls a moan from Will’s throat. “Such a cunning boy.”  
  
His thrusts come stronger, overcome once more with how his affection grips at his core, pulling tighter with pleasure and passion. Will’s skin is tacky with sweat and flushed and a hand reaches back to grip at Hannibal’s hair as Will whimpers desperately.  
  
“The potential you can wield is never to be underestimated,” Hannibal praises, whispered against the mottled skin beneath his lips. “The ability to fashion something from nearly nothing is a power to behold.”  
  
He slides his hand lower, nestling his fingers between Will’s legs and stroking at and around his clit. Will’s whimpers turn to gasping breaths jolting in and out of Will’s chest in wild bursts. Will’s nails scrape against his scalp as his grip shakes loose and he scrambles for a new hold.  
  
“Your body has been so open to me, so welcoming. So willing that it bears for me against all odds,” Hannibal murmurs, reverent and rapturous. “And you, so powerful that you allow it to do so.”  
  
He can feel that if Will weren’t so close to orgasm, he might purr again. Will’s skin trembles with the crisscross of contentment and pleasure, intertwining and building and growing. As they peak and crash, Will’s hole clenches and unclenches desperately around his cock. Even in success, Will’s body longs to draw Hannibal’s cum from him. Even when Will’s body won’t be rid fully of Hannibal for many months, it craves more.  
  
As he sucks a final dark bruise to Will’s throat, plugs, and fills him, his hand slides back to the damp, tacky skin of Will’s belly, joined there by the sure touch of Will’s fingers.

  
\---

  
Beverly’s dorm room smells like a sage and citrus candle burning day and night – not just for the scent, but for the hint of a flame. There are framed pictures of family on the desk and stuck to the wall: staged pictures of the parents and children all standing together and candid photos with the smiling faces of younger siblings in various combinations. Since Will’s first time in the room and during every visit afterwards, his eyes have poured over each and every one of the photos. He could see bickering between spirited children and scolding from parents right before the camera flash and he could see joy and celebration captured in a child’s face illuminated by birthday candles on a homemade cake.   
  
Will’s eyes study the picture of Beverly and her mom. Beverly is young, maybe nine or ten. Her hair is in two pigtails and there’s a smile on her face similar to that of her dam, who stands behind her with proud hands on her shoulders. He lingers, looking, as chatter circles around him, studying every feature of a happy mother and child.  
  
His hand twitches in his lap, itching to clasp itself back around the soft swell of his belly where it now so often lands. It is a combination of awe and near skepticism that draws in the touch — difficult to believe the potential truly resides there.  
  
“My baby sister gets away with murder,” Beverly announces with the harsh open and loud slam of her door, holding her cell phone in her hand in a tense grip and sighing deeply in frustration. “She has them all fooled.”  
  
Beverly’s friends pause their bickering conversation for just moment to look up at her. They’d shown up just as Will and Beverly finished their dinner and discarded the styrofoam that once held their burgers. The greasy, fatty food sat heavy and pleasing and Will was halfway through a thought to ask Hannibal to make him a burger tomorrow and partway through the image of his professor’s brow wrinkled in consternation when Brian and Jimmy showed up with a demanding series of knocks at the door.  
  
He was introduced to Brian and Jimmy during a previous interruption. At the time, the introduction described a friend from Beverly’s own Summer Program placement and a friend of the friend. Now, Will sees them often enough that they might all be considered friends if Brian and Jimmy didn’t so clearly view him with disdain and disinterest, respectively.  
  
“Let me guess,” Brian taunts with the flick of an accusatory finger towards Will, “only child.”  
  
“Why do you say that?” Will questions.  
  
Will has the sleeves of his shirt and sweater rolled down past his wrists to hide the elastic wristbands the doctor recommended. Made with a little plastic button on the inside, he was instructed to press on it whenever a particular surge of nausea hit. Soaking them in cologne hadn’t been part of the recommendation, but he included it as a necessary addition.  
  
Brian _reeks_ of a bitter, sour, biting scent. It’s the scent emitted into the air by someone who wants to be an Alpha, but simply isn’t. It’s the scent of someone starving for the sense of security and ability to demand that Alphas are associated with, regardless of how flimsy and false those characteristics can be in actuality. A product of rearing rather than biology, what keeps Brian from having those qualities is the part of him that believes that they are impossible to achieve.  
  
“Family frictions is usually a catalyst for personality development,” Brian declares, a jab.  
  
“I was the oldest, so all the friction rolled downhill,” Beverly complains as she seats herself on the bed opposite Will.  
  
“I thought middles were the problem,” Jimmy queries, not bothered in the least.  
  
“Middle’s the sweet spot,” Brian announces confidently.  
  
“Adler thought middle children would feel as though they are denied a position of privilege and significance,” Will recites pointedly at Brian. “Lucky for you, birth order amounts to just as much as astrological signs.”  
  
“You must be fun at parties,” Brian grumbles.  
  
“Give Will enough whiskey and it’s a grand old time,” Beverly teases, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Speaking of, it’s about time we had a good party.”  
  
“A drinker, Will?” Brian continues, undeterred. “Explains why you look constantly hungover and always teetering on the edge of chucking up your lunch.”  
  
Will tries not to react, tries to look bored. He hasn’t told Beverly. He’d known already before he’d made his decision that this is a secret that _cannot_ get out, so much so that it hardly felt like a decision at all. The specific decision against disclosing beyond medical professionals and family came later. In the week and a half that led up to his doctor’s appointment, he struggled to decide if this would be another secret Beverly kept for him. Ultimately, when he sat in Hannibal’s car and looked through the window at the doorway that would lead to the office of the doctor Hannibal picked, he experienced the sudden clarity to declare to his professor that everything should be kept _confidential_.  
  
The risk to his professor’s job has been present likely as long as the pup has for the simple reason that they’d engaged in the act that created it. All this time, they’ve thought the risk was simply having an inappropriate connection, not knowing until very recently that it has always truly been much direr. Amongst Will’s highest priorities – beyond the typical, but nonetheless genuine, answer of _a healthy and safe pup_ – is maintaining both of their career prospects. He was first drawn to Hannibal as an educator and Will knows his professor is defined by his work.  
  
“All you know is how I look in the moments that you are able to observe,” Will remarks with gritted teeth and a hard press of the plastic button against his wrist. “Maybe if you realized the world doesn’t only exist the way _you_ see it, then you’d figure out that it’s the _stink_ of your _jealousy_ that makes me feel sick.”  
  
“Of course,” Brian scoffs with a disbelieving, self-indulgent laugh. “I’ve read Freddie’s article like everyone else.”  
  
Beverly shifts stiffly, nearly flinches on Will’s behalf. Freddie promotes her original article about Will every so often for a surge in clicks, artificially creating and maintaining it as her most viewed subject matter. She nestles the article in and amongst others about a botany student growing psychedelic mushrooms and a music student who got kicked out of the string second at the orchestra for fighting a trombonist – implicitly grouping him together with students who break the rules.  
  
“Is it another day for ice cream, Will,” Beverly says, phrased as a question but not said as one.  
  
Will gives a strained laugh, fingers twitching. “Always,” he acknowledges with a lick of his lip.  
  
“Recovering alcoholics, they crave sugar,” Brian interjects, undeterred. He turns his tone to something teasing and gives a joking gesture towards Jimmy to create plausible deniability as he says, “Don’t take that too personally, buddy.”  
  
Seemingly unbothered by any of the tension in the room or accusations swirling around them, Jimmy replies easily, “Oh, I’m not recovering.”  
  
“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Beverly interjects, standing and sliding her wallet and phone into her back pockets.  
  
Neither Brian nor Jimmy make any moves to stand up or leave; they don’t even seem to think they might need to. They all know the Beverly will be returning and, even if Brian and Jimmy don’t know that it’s Hannibal’s house he’ll be going to, they all know Will won’t be returning with her.

  
\---

  
The last group supervision is somewhat bittersweet. He struggles to keep himself from smiling with the plethora of mental health professionals self-aware enough to declare their difficulties with goodbyes, quickly followed by engaging in their self-identified means of avoiding. Some avoid with disbelief and requests to keep in touch, others act like nothing will change, and a couple even cry in preparation for the loss. The lab will continue, but many know that with the end of the study, they enter a different phase and stage. This knowledge is at the forefront of Will’s mind. Many things have started and ended during this chapter.  
  
Sitting for the final time in a circle comprised of student clinicians and supervising professors, Will doesn’t know what his role will be in the lab now. He found his place at the front desk, a place that will no longer be his to claim. Knowing, there will be no more clients to check in, no more sessions to observe leaves him feeling frustrated and stagnant. He will have to resign himself to coding interviews into a spreadsheet with only the hope that he can help to author some piece of a paper to publish – but only if it’s not too suspicious to let him.   
**  
** He can feel Dr. Du Maurier’s eyes on him and has felt the attention since they sat down together in the circle. For the past few weeks, Will has strategically chosen a chair next to Alana rather than trying to decipher an appropriate distance relative to Hannibal. This, by unhappy happenstance, has landed him right across from Dr. Du Maurier. She tips her gaze every so often to whoever is speaking out of courtesy but she always lands back on him. He is wearing one of his thicker cable knit sweaters, a dark forest green that leaves him grateful for the coverage but ungrateful for the way in which it offers no relief from the heat of Dr. Du Maurier’s attention.  
  
When the time is finally up and the group disperses into a celebration so subdued it is more a commemoration. Will excuses himself to the bathroom down the hall as everyone else mills around choosing from a spread of hors d’oeuvres and selection of beverages. Will has already sampled the array of options. He watched Hannibal assemble everything the night before, leaving Hannibal to half-heartedly scowl as Will picked away at various ingredients and disrupted the proportion.  
  
After splashing his flushed face with cool water and pressing shaking hands to the spot at his wrist, he rejoins the crowd. It takes hardly a moment for Anthony to saunter up with two glasses of some sort of non-alcoholic champagne alternative. He remembers his professor bemoaning not being able to serve the real thing.  
  
“I’ve heard you won’t be joining us for our soiree,” Anthony conspires in his typical bold whisper, just quiet and raspy enough to pretend at discretion, while not caring at all if he is overheard.  
  
“I’m sure,” Will replies, deadpan, as he accepts the glass extended to him. “Did you ask or come upon this information organically?”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Anthony croons, his lips curling knowingly. “There was no need to ask. Alana and Frederick are both beside themselves with the thought of missing you.”  
  
Will huffs at the exaggeration and grumbles, “They’ll be fine. A little alcohol and they won’t notice the difference.”  
  
Will flicks his eyes to where Dr. Lecter and Dr. Du Maurier stand together off to the side in the corner, discussing something professionally and amiably, wearing the matching masks of two people performing ingenuousness. Dr. Lecter and Dr. Du Maurier are well aware of the after party. Hannibal had asked Will if he planned to go. Will has no interest in the after-party. He didn’t want to go to the first one and he definitely doesn’t want to go to this one now. He learned from his mistakes and made sure not to tell Beverly and tries not to think of it as another piece of information withheld.   
  
“We are fortunate to have such esteemed professors to take after, are we not?” Anthony remarks.  
  
The word pulls his attention, but when he looks away, he finds Anthony’s gaze on Hannibal and Dr. Du Maurier holding fast. Will furrows his brow slightly at Anthony as he replies, “I guess.”  
  
“I was a TA during my time at Cambridge for an insufferable fellow. It was easier for him to slide into academia and dissect the work of others than it was to stand by his own words,” Anthony explains. “Dr. Lecter and Dr. Du Maurier are a pretty pair with their carefully selected words.”  
  
Will shrugs faintly and hums in agreement as he takes a sip from his glass, bubbles tickling at his lips and the taste of jasmine’s acidity and sweetness tingling at his tongue. He knows from Hannibal’s cooking lecture the night before that it’s supposed to pair well with cheeses that Will isn’t allowed to eat.  
  
“To carefully select words is to know their consequences and stand by them,” he agrees.  
  
“The study of the human mind appeals to connoisseurs of the most peculiar and confounding in human nature,” Anthony proclaims. “Knowing how the mind works, predicting effects and consequences, can make us feel omniscient and, in our omniscience, we are more aware of the potential for omniscience in others.”  
  
“There is no omniscience,” Will huffs. “Simply using the cues and evidence.”  
  
“If we can see the cues and evidence in others, we become intimately aware of how those cues and evidence can be seen in us in turn,” Anthony argues, pivoting easily to include Will’s protests as proof of his point. “We can twist ourselves into all manner of uncomfortable positions just to maintain appearances.”  
  
Will rears his head in realization. “Are you still wanting to get Dr. Lecter _untwisted_?”  
  
“He is a fascinating one, isn’t he?” Anthony praises. “They are the both of them.”  
  
Will can smell that Anthony is having _fun_. His underlying saccharine scent is stronger and overpowering the scent of paper and the sweetness melds with the smoke like some sort of fancy dessert Hannibal might try to make.  
  
“Has your study of Dr. Du Maurier been more successful?” Will deflects.  
  
“Only so successful as yours is of Dr. Lecter.”  
  
“Seems unlikely,” he remarks, blandly enough that it is nearly directionless.  
  
“The tales we could tell,” Anthony muses, almost a singsong. “But then again, what kind of friends would we be?”  
  
“What kind of friends,” Will repeats simply. He studies Anthony – evaluates the quirk in his lip and the undeterred delight in his eyes – and frowns. “Shouldn’t you be interested in saving the poor, wide-eyed Omega?”  
  
“I have no delusions about morality. There’s something to be said about a society that condones something when it can be blamed on carelessness but scorns it when consciously, carefully chosen,” Anthony dismisses, turning back towards Dr. Du Maurier with a sharp intensity.  
  
Frederick steps into their line of sight, seeming to physically break a tether with the unintentional position of his body between the two students and their two professors.  
  
“Hello, Anthony,” Frederick greets, chilly and suspicious. “Are you having any more luck convincing our dear Will to come to the party than we have?”  
  
“I’m afraid not,” Anthony replies coolly. “Seems Will has plans for tonight that do not include the appropriately hellish experience of witnessing you successively failing in rounds of beer pong.”  
  
Frederick falters in his chagrin and Anthony gives Will a wink when Frederick looks away to collect a good retort. Given the window of opportunity, Will slips away, feigning the need for a couple fancy, but unadorned crackers conveniently near Alana, who welcomes him with a quiet, indulgent smile.  
  
It seems to take ages for everyone to decide to leave. Alana starts the process when she leaves to finish readying her apartment. Others trickle out with appropriately spaced timings and unnecessary excuses given for show. When only Will and Dr. Du Maurier remain, he meets Dr. her eyes decidedly differently. There is no need to engage in pretense about why he’s not left with the rest. He holds eye contact with her longer than he has any time they’ve crossed paths before. When she turns her lips in self-satisfaction, he raises a brow as his own taunt.  
  
“I brought us dinner,” Hannibal announces, arriving just in time to discourage either Will or Dr. Du Maurier from making conversation. “I thought we might eat it in my office. The closing of a chapter and opening of a new one.”  
  
Hannibal came bearing familiar containers in hand and, when Will pulls himself back from feelings of nostalgia, Dr. Du Maurier is already retreating down the hallway. Will agrees with a smile. As they walk the familiar hallway for what might be the last time, it feels oddly eerie. Hannibal’s flick of the light switch creates a darkness with finality. He carries that dark and emptied feeling even as his professor flicks on the lamps scattered around his office.  
  
“How does one achieve closure in this situation?” Will queries as he sits in the familiar chair opposite the desk, smoothing his hands over the arms, comforted by how the texture has remained the same, how his fingernails catch when he curls his fingers, imagines himself carving crescent-shaped divots that can never be removed.  
  
“A therapist’s life is equal parts counsel and curiosity. We set a patient on a path, but are left to wonder where that path will take them,” Hannibal consoles, placing food and utensils in their proper places in practiced ritual. “We achieve closure in knowing we have come to our endpoint on the path; it will continue to turn without us.”  
  
“And if we don’t want it to turn without us?” Will asks, more sharply than he intends.  
  
“We remain open to the possibility that it will curve back in our direction.”  
  
“Tell me that I will be able to have it again,” he demands. He has envisioned his path winding and has convinced himself he knows where it will lead even if he doesn’t know how. He knows this but his certainty is pulled in an ebb and flow like water crashing against the sand, sometimes caught in a rip current that pulls him out to sea. The label of _mood swings_ is insultingly trite. “Tell me that wasn’t the closest I came to providing therapy. Tell me my only hope isn’t simply to sit in the client’s chair.”  
  
“I will make sure of it,” Hannibal promises.  
  
“Anthony knows about us,” Will confesses, a potentially complicating factor to his professor’s promise.  
  
He can see the stunned response in Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal is too sophisticated to have a cartoonish widening of his eyes. It is instead an emptiness, a momentary absence of the typical collectedness as if the strings that maintain the pull in his mask all slacked and slipped away.  
  
“Not everything,” Will reassures him. “He made implications, called us _friends_.”  
  
“Anthony’s skills of observation are a credit to him,” Hannibal sighs, holding his fork and knife in a tactful grasp. “His gossipy nature is a debt.”  
  
“Did you know about him and Dr. Du Maurier?”  
  
Hannibal tsks his tongue and picks up his wine glass to smell and swirl under his nose. “Bedelia will have ensured that the professional aspect of their relationship will be the only definitively identifiable one.”  
  
“Protection from accusations of hypocrisy,” he grumbles, spearing a piece of meat with his fork and bringing it to his teeth to testily chew.  
  
“She has maintained boundaries in the means and manner she instructed we should,” Hannibal concedes. “She can be confident in the knowledge that Anthony is pleased by the chase.”  
  
Will envisions the breathy tone of Dr. Du Maurier’s voice as she whispers words of suggestive dismissal, only a single step too close. He can almost hear the click of one of her heels as she takes that one step backwards again. He can imagine the flirtatious twist of Anthony’s lips and dutiful wrinkle in his brow as he accepts his rejection as a veil. Anthony would collect these veils like he would a scented handkerchief from a lover and collect the clacks of footsteps forward like a mating call. For two betas, it might be as close as they get to courting and the thrill of the chase.  
  
He looks at Hannibal in the muted light provided by strategic lamps, seated as he is behind the desk, shirt sleeves rolled up around his forearms, one hand curled around a silver fork. It is as if seeing the world in contrast. He sees his professor, so similar and so dissimilar from his very first memory of such a dinner.  
  
He imagines what it might have been like if either of them had tried to step away as they were instructed to do, if they had engaged in the kind of cat-and-mouse that Anthony and Dr. Du Maurier play. He imagines anger and destruction it could have wrought. Where Dr. Du Maurier can feel confident in Anthony’s overt interest, neither Will nor Hannibal would be able to say the same – even if for different reasons. He imagines senseless misunderstandings and unnecessary hurt. He can envision a different colder, greyer Dr. Lecter.  
  
Instead, he’ll be making this man a father.  
  
Will feels the sudden need to grab at Hannibal’s hand, to feel how easy it is to do and how easily Hannibal invites Will closer in the intertwining of fingers. He doesn’t know how to identify the feeling in his chest. He doesn’t know a word to describe the acute desperation and acute relief he feels at once.  
  
It is easier to identify the pang in his chest knowing that there is one topic that is perhaps their iteration of hide and seek. It is a pang in his chest that is fed and festers whenever he uses Hannibal as a life raft. 

  
\---

  
When Jack calls to say that he’d be welcome for dinner, Hannibal makes his silkie chicken in a broth. Will asked for chicken soup when Hannibal solicited his requests for dinner this week. Often Will’s cravings come unannounced, but occasionally they can be predicted or at least expected to return again later. He packs away three servings to take with him and leaves Will in the dining room, wrapped in a sweater, hunched over his own portion steaming in the bowl.  
  
They have not spoken more of Will’s plans as far as Jack Crawford is concerned. Still, Will does not need to say it for Hannibal to know that it will hinge on their ability to keep secrets, which in turn hinges on Hannibal’s ability to keep Jack unaware.  
  
There will only be so much concealing Will may be able to do. Their predicament is one part visible, one part invisible. There is no control to be had over how the visible will make itself increasingly obvious. There is only control to be had with how it is perceived and who it is perceived to be involved with.  
  
Jack’s house smells like weed and sick, stale air. It’s heavy and pungent as soon as he walks across the threshold. It grows stronger as he is led up the stairs to greet Bella. He makes no comment about her inability to greet him at the door, just as he makes no comment as he sits by Bella’s bedside and, though he brought food, neither of them eat. The soup sits steaming next to them as Bella sits grey and woozy with a vaporizer held precariously in one hand and an oxygen mask dangling in the other’s loose hold. Jack left them to talk, his exit from the room was like a deep puff of hazy air taken in too deeply and held too long, burning the throat and seizing the lungs.  
  
“Smells delicious,” Bella acknowledges and she waves the vaporizer in her hand as she explains, “This is supposed to help me eat, but it just makes me tired. It feels as though I will spend the rest of my life asleep or halfway there.”  
  
“Rest is necessary for a healing mind and body.”  
  
“My body isn’t healing,” she wheezes with a cough. “It is decaying from the inside and poisoned. I never should have let Jack talk me into taking chemo.”  
  
“Why do you let him convince you?” he asks, genuinely curious about how a couple like the Crawfords persuades and coaxes.  
  
Bella’s sigh gets stuck in her throat and has to work its way free. “It is important to him to try and it is important to me to let him try even if it is pointless,” she explains, smiling with pity.  
  
“He’s trying to extend your life.”  
  
“He’s trying to extend a quality of life that’s not worth the effort.”  
  
“A fading bond is a pain beyond compare. Bonding is carving space for another, allowing them to occupy body and soul,” he remarks, eyes on the faint mark on Bella’s neck, losing its color, edge, and luster. “When you’re gone, he will feel your silence like a draft.”  
  
“My silence is inevitable,” Bella reminds him, pity swallowed by bitterness. “I am my mother’s daughter and I watched her go through exactly what I am going through now.”  
  
He imagines Bella younger, perhaps just as guarded and strong, but not quite so poised, not yet. He imagines that Bella attended to a woman much like the woman sitting across from him, strong in will but weak in body.  
  
“Do you see your mother in your reflection when you look in the mirror?”  
  
“I feel closer to her, dying like she did – a life in a figure eight, she witnessed my life start, I witnessed her life end, and I witness her end once again in mine.“  
  
“Life has its cadence,” he muses, thinking of how his own reflection has looked different in the mirror for the past four weeks. He is the eighth with his name and feels every predecessor in the lines of his face. “The punctuation at the end of a sentence gives meaning to every word, every space that proceeded it.”  
  
“What do you know of death, Dr. Lecter?”  
  
“I’ve always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world has to offer,” he answers. “But love and death are the great hinges on which all human sympathies turn. What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others…that’s beyond us.”  
  
“You and Jack consider yourself experts in every room.”  
  
True to her word, Bella soon struggles to keep her eyes open and Hannibal takes his leave, taking the food with him as he goes. He finds Jack downstairs in the kitchen, staring at glasses of wine undrunk and more food left uneaten. Even deep in absent thought and inactive in body, Jack’s face and expression refuse to become passive.  
  
“You have to eat something, Jack,” Hannibal insists, nearly a tut.   
  
“I don’t suppose this is something that can get put in the microwave,” Jack jokes sarcastically.   
  
“Will you allow me?” he asks with a deferential tip of his head and openness of his palms.  
  
Rudeness aside, he could not possibly simply make himself comfortable in another Alpha’s home, particularly not an Alpha like Jack. The instinct to guard and protect would only be heightened by a sick mate, perhaps much the way Hannibal feels compelled to check the door is locked a second time when Will is in their bed.  
  
At Jack’s nod, Hannibal moves to collect the containers and find the necessary kitchenware in cabinets and drawers. The soup is unpleasantly lukewarm but not quite cold and heating is easy work.  
  
“Feed the body, feed the mind,” he announces, as he places the presents the food to Jack once more, hot and lightly steaming just as it was before. “I’m sorry about Bella, Jack,” he says as he raises his spoon to his lips.  
  
“I used to be afraid of losing my memory,” Jack sighs, wincing at the sound of a cough coming from upstairs. He hunches slightly over the food, a striking curl in his usually proud and powerful frame. “What I wouldn’t give to forget and thing or two now.”  
  
“Memory gives moments immortality but forgetfulness promotes a healthy mind,” he sympathizes. “It’s good to forget.”  
  
“I opened my eyes this morning and, at that moment, before the weight of the day came for me, I didn’t even think about Bella dying.”  
  
“Ask an adult with lung cancer how they would describe a good death and their description will most likely include _during sleep_ , _pain-free_ , _quick_ , or _peaceful_ ,” Hannibal explains by way of comfort. “Ask the loved one who cares for them and they will most likely discuss getting caught between their own wants and their loved one’s.”  
  
Hannibal can see how this resonates, prodding at a painful sore, too often reopened to heal.  
  
“I’m not going to stand outside my marriage and watch this happen,” Jack declares. “If that’s what she wants, too bad. She picked the wrong mate.”  
  
“She doesn’t think she picked the wrong mate,” he reassures, thinking of Bella’s dedication to enduring pain for the sake of her mate. This is not something done by someone who feels her mate is lacking.  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about when my wife is going to die,” Jack admits, the sore spilling in the form of hot tears threatening to well. “I still think she hopes to die while I am out of the room.”  
  
“It can be difficult to trust that you are able to leave if you cannot trust that she will still be here when you return,” he validates, thinking of the relief that rushed from Jack earlier when leaving Hannibal and Bella to themselves. “No man is an island, Jack.”  
  
Jack smiles. It is small and tense, but present. “You’re a great friend, Hannibal.”  
  
When Hannibal returns home, Will has left the dining room to instead curl in bed. It has become plusher over time. Hannibal first found his sweaters tucked under pillows. He then strategically placed extra pillows and blankets within Will’s view and reach. Now, blankets spill over the edge to create a softer cascade to the floor and pillows stack high and wide. Sweaters are donned and peeled away, no longer discarded immediately into hampers but used briefly for their scent and softness, worn and stripped off over and over until they smell too much of Will’s cologne and they both crave a reprieve from the biting, metallic scent.   
  
Keeping his attention firmly on his reading, Will doesn’t look up as he gestures for Hannibal to join him in the nest as any Omega might do with their Alpha. It is the curl of fingers and turn of his wrist that is graceful in its simplicity, beautiful in its ease. Will is surrounded by scattered notecards, pads of paper, and books, almost as if they are becoming one with the nest as well. Hannibal gathers some of the notecards in his hands, straightening the stack and setting them aside tucked into one of Will’s textbooks with a more flexible cover.  
  
As soon as his hand is open and free, Will takes it in his. Will still doesn’t look up from his book as he places Hannibal’s hand spread wide and firm against his belly. Omegas tend to engage in such an act to encourage an Alpha to bond with a creature not yet in the world to connect with. Unbonded and otherwise vulnerable Omegas tend to practice it even more in order to encourage and reassure a pup’s sire of their success. It is another commonplace gesture made unique by Will being the one to perform it.  
  
Hannibal needs no reassurance of his success or encouragement to feel affection and connection and delights in the touch nonetheless. He lays at Will’s side and awaits Will returning back to the present, allowing himself to feel captivated by his study of Will as Will feels captivated by his studies.  
  
Will’s belly is more pronounced every day, even if only very, very slightly. However slight it may be in actuality, the curve of its presence seems to grow and solidify whenever he sees Will again after time spent apart, almost as if the pup makes their presence known pointedly, yet politely. The risk of anything seeming too amiss is still relatively far off. The cold weather is in this case forgiving. The excuses Will has for wearing thick, heavy sweaters and sweatshirts will only increase in relationship to each downtick in the temperature.   
  
They are not yet halfway, but close enough to feel the sort of surreal Will once accused him of.   
  
After many moments pass, Will shifts uncomfortably, rolling his neck and shoulders and shifting his hips, bracing a hand over Hannibal’s to make sure it doesn’t become displaced with the movement.  
  
“Why do professors insist on group projects?” Will groans, rubbing the fingers of his free hand harshly across his eyelids.  
  
“Because we are sadists,” Hannibal quips with a smile that he can feel shows the edge of a few teeth.  
  
“That must be it,” Will laughs, showing his dimples and the points of his teeth too. He uncovers his eyes and flits his attention, collecting information and evidence with a level of attention Hannibal knows he will never be able to entirely account for. “Dinner was pleasant?” he concludes.  
  
“Yes,” he confirms. “And informative.”  
  
Will hums and nods his head easily as if pleased by the outcome. “Behind enemy lines.”  
  
“I don’t consider Jack to be the enemy,” he counters. “I did not assume that was how you viewed him either.”  
  
Will sighs and sinks deeper against the cascade of pillows and jumble of a blanket behind him. “Dr. Crawford as my _Pack Alpha_ wields the ability to assess and dictate my likelihood of success, including cutting me loose if he sees fit.”  
  
“Jack does not seem likely to cut you loose,” Hannibal reassures. “If anything, it seems he wants you tied to a nearer post.”  
  
“You cannot say that Dr. Crawford would consider a pup an asset to his agenda,” he argues, without question. “Fine china is only fine until it has a chip. Then it’s no better than an old mug.”  
  
Hannibal concedes easily with the nod of his head. “Jack’s excellent administrative instincts are not often tempered by mercy.”  
  
“Clearly,” he says, likely thinking of how Jack paired him with Hannibal with the hopes that he would be driven away. “I need to remain useful to him if I want to have any hope. I’ll take his class, go to his office hours, attend study groups, keep close. I will encourage him to view me as an asset – makes it even more difficult to discard me later on.”  
  
“Hiding in plain sight.”  
  
“High risk, high reward,” Will says with a smirk.  
  


\---

  
Will holds a print out of an ultrasound in one hand, his other hand pressed against the soft fibers of a cashmere sweater. The glossy picture offers a memento from their appointment, something tangible to show just what resides within – a pup with its developing personhood, already has its own growing profile, a nose and mouth too indistinct to attribute but with a presence no less meaningful for it. Philosophically nothing has changed, emotionally everything has.  
  
It would be too big if a risk to take the ultrasound photos outside of Hannibal’s house. They can’t be carried in wallets or displayed in an office and a dorm. They are instead cherished in matching picture frames on matching desks in the semi-lit darkness of Hannibal’s home.  
  
Will asked for an extra to give to his dad depending on how things go.  
  
He leaves tomorrow for Louisiana. Finals are finished, the semester complete. He has officially survived his first semester as a college student. Similar to many of his peers, the plan is for him to leave campus for the month between the end of this semester and the start of the next.  
  
Interjecting itself into his preparations for finals was the recurrent thought that he could lie to his father by telling him that he is too busy to take a whole month away or that the program needed him back sooner. In the end, he didn’t do it because he knew his mouth would have stumbled on the words.  
  
This visit may be the last time he will see his dad for a while. It’s a long distance to travel and not inexpensive. Will knows that when he returns it will be settled. He has already been settling and there is no turning back.  
  
“We could disappear now. Tonight,” Hannibal suggests, a clandestine whisper in his ear as hands and arms circle his body, pulling him in. A kiss lands at the back of his head as Hannibal continues his persuasion. “Leave a note for Alana, never see her or Jack again. Almost polite.”  
  
“I need him to know,” Will breathes in reply.  
  
At first, Will cringed at the idea of telling his dad, not sure what reaction he was most afraid of. He was afraid his dad would be angry and disappointed by his recklessness and reject him. He was afraid that his dad would react as if this was always what he’d expected: to pursue a career until an Alpha and a baby stopped him in his tracks.  
  
He pulls away from the encirclement of Hannibal’s arms to retrieve a book from their nest, the same book he sought comfort in the night of their revelation. As he tucks the photo away between the pages, he remembers it all with full clarity. His dorm room had looked so _normal_ , so unchanged. His books were left open and in piles on his bed, his floor, and his desk where he’d left them when he realized he was running late. He’d picked up a book and, in a twist of irony, found that he’d left it open to a page he’d read hundreds of times before: _the four quadrants of_ _attachment styles_.  
  
He can recall the words on the page. He can see pieces of himself and Hannibal there, the pieces that matched each other at their core even if their expressions of them branched in different directions. He can see their self-sufficient, competent, independent affectations designed to cover over their detachment and distance.  
  
He remembered turning the page and both seeking and dreading finding what he was looking for. He’d felt something like dread drop like a rock deep into his belly as he’d scanned the next figure: _the four quadrants of_ _parenting styles_. The information had come to him with a new lens, a new commitment. What was once information to use as he observed others through hidden glass became a possible window into his own future. He’d scoured the page and the next and the next for information about all the ways a parent can impact a child – cause them pain, bring them anxiety, teach them to distrust the world.   
  
The most logical option was most likely not to have the baby at all. It would be illogical to not at least consider it. He considered what it would be like to have an abortion: he would continue with classes like usual and he and Hannibal would continue as they were, but with extra emphasis on contraceptive. Hannibal would have been disappointed, but he could live with that. After all, Will would have been disappointed too. There was a difference between wanting to have an abortion and not wanting a baby. Ultimately, his latent want for the baby was what kept the most reasonable option from being the definitive choice.  
  
Will could have taken more time to think. He could have told Hannibal to be patient and knows confidently that he would have agreed, even if only because it offered the opportunity to cover disappointment and hold onto hope. However, he’d already known everything to consider. More time just allowed for more worrying, not better options or easier decisions.  
  
For most of his life, he did not consider himself to be particularly emotional or soft-hearted and he is sure most others who meet him would agree. Those others would think the same of Hannibal. If only they could know how soft and warm their two cold hearts have already become.  
  
He presses the book into the wall of the nest – to be retrieved and packed away later when he can bear it – and returns to the enclosure of Hannibal’s arms just as if he’d never left. He places his back to Hannibal’s front and guides hands to the curve of his belly. The round shape of it would be noticeable and incriminating if anyone but the two of them was given the opportunity to really see it.   
  
“There will be no hiding under layers and sweaters in Louisiana,” Will says, thinking of the shirts Hannibal has slipped wordlessly into what has become Will’s part of the closet, some a size bigger, others a couple sizes up.  
  
“There will be no need to hide,” Hannibal reminds him simply.  
  
That may be partially true. The doctor hadn’t been openly judgmental. There was no point. Throughout recorded time, heat and rut have created all kinds of bizarre and ill-fated pairs. In some ways, he and Hannibal might not even register as particularly strange. Will does not have to stretch his imagination to think of qualities of strange pairs far surpassing a questionable difference in age and wealth. In other ways, they are not without a heaping serving of controversy.  
  
There is still a degree of controversy to being pregnant and not being bonded. Society has advanced to not necessitate bonding as much as it used to. Bonding has transformed over time from untamed claiming rights and possession to promises and dedication. With it, the response to a lack of a bond shifted from that of a shameful, scorned liability to slight sideways looks that can largely be ignored.   
  
If they were bonded, time apart would be like a string pulled stretched and taut, unraveling them gradually on each side the longer they are pulled apart. Without a bond, they are untethered, drifting in empty space with nothing to grasp hold of.  
  
Will feels a shifting and moving within him, the jerky movements of a pup newly discovering its limbs. Turning and kicking, their baby tests space and room, pushing out against muscle and skin to make themself more known to the outside world, more known and cherished by their dam and sire.  
  
“Can you feel it?” Will whispers. “Feel them.”  
  
“Yes, Will,” Hannibal murmurs affectionately, following the movement with diligent fingers. “Truly remarkable, as always.”  
  
“I’ll be carrying you with me even when I’m gone,” he promises earnestly. “The pup won’t let me forget even for a moment. They’ll give me a nudge and a kick just to be sure.”  
  
Hannibal smiles at him in a soft, sad sort of way. He can smell the melancholy on his professor’s skin. Tears well in his eyes as he turns and drip to dampen Hannibal’s sweater, one that’s been cycled out of the nest to be refreshed and added again. A sob wracks his frame at the idea that the scent will fade before he returns. Anger and embarrassment flicker under the surface of pooling tears – frustration at a recurrent _weepiness_. For the past 20 weeks, his emotions have not seemed to be his own. Some of this sadness is his, some of it is Hannibal’s, sinking in together like quicksand with the stale, damp smell on his Hannibal.  
  
He has known of course that Hannibal is disappointed to see him gone so long. Naturally, he doesn’t say it in so many words. Earlier, Hannibal lamented that Will is set to be gone when the pup begins to develop its sense of taste. His professor visibly saddened at the idea of being denied the opportunity to flavor Will’s menu knowing it will then mean that he cannot have influence over their pup’s growing palate. Will deflected with teasing jokes about a pup with a taste for Cajun cuisine and sprinkled some ridicule for being so pompous as to turn up his nose at the idea. Will lectured Hannibal on the history of Cajun food until he admitted reluctant defeat.   
  
What Will laments is that their pup will be deprived a month of hearing Hannibal’s voice.  
  
Hannibal places two sure, strong hands on either side of his jaw and tips his head back, unyielding in his touch. Will can feel gravity pull a tear down his cheek and to his lips, instinctively licks and tastes the salt. He doesn’t open his eyes, woozy with how he feels himself draining. He doesn’t think he can bear to see tears reflected in Hannibal’s eyes.  
  
“Dear Will,” Hannibal whispers, placing a kiss to his forehead. With a hand at the back of his neck, Hannibal urges him back to the nest, helps Will to settle in before settling in with him. “In those moments when you can’t overcome your surroundings, you can make it all go away,” Hannibal reassures. “You are safe and you are in control.”  
  
Will takes a deep breath as Hannibal does, though it stutters on the way out in a way that Hannibal’s does not. He can hear his professor’s heartbeat under his ear, calm. He closes his eyes and sinks into the blankets and pillows and clothes and stray pencils and paper.   
  
“You find yourself in a safe place,” Hannibal recites, the cadence and inflection of well-practiced poetry. The intonation gives it the impression of being far away, perfect and timeless. “Perhaps it's not a place you've ever seen before except in the beauty of your own mind. Allow the images to come. In this place of safety, no one can come without your invitation. In this place of safety, you are always at peace.”  
  
The first time they practiced this Will had difficulty keeping his mind from wandering, people arriving without invitation and refusing to leave, places and spaces tainted by quick associations and bad memories. Today, he recalls a stream, not one he’s ever truly been to before, but built from the knowledge of streams like it that he’d seen in the across the country he’d experienced as a kid.  
  
It’s plush and green with sounds of water rushing and birds chirping. He times his breathes to the way leaves drift in the easy current. He shivers in relief as damp hits air and sunlight. The kicks in his belly are a welcome intrusion, even if they tend to arrive unannounced. He might have imagined them there anyway if they hadn’t gone ahead and invited themselves.  
  
“Let the colors, scents, sounds, and textures come alive for you in this beautiful and safe place,” a gentle voice reminds him. “Each time you come to your safe place, you may develop it and allow it to become more and more beautiful.”  
  
He doesn’t imagine Hannibal beside him, never has. It doesn’t quite suit Hannibal to be knees deep in the river. He always imagines his professor at home, waiting, anticipating the catch Will brings for dinner. He soaks himself in the pride of knowing he is guaranteed his catch and, by extension, a pleased smile on Hannibal’s face.  
  
“Stay in this place as long as you would like. And when you are ready, walk away from this beautiful, safe place. When you open your eyes, you will be in the present moment, awake and alert.”  
  
Will opens his eyes to the easy smile seen behind closed ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone that commented! I really appreciate it! I really went back and forth with some aspects of this chapter, so I hope it paid off and y'all enjoy it!


	6. Chapter 6

Will looks different when Hannibal picks him up from the airport, different from how Will looked when Hannibal dropped him off a month ago. It has been such a _long_ month. Each day contained the same amount of time as the day before but each hour seemed stretched, stretching as Will’s shirt stretches across the curve of his belly when Hannibal slides his hand along it once they’ve hidden themselves away in the privacy of his car.  
  
Will grasps at his hand, a practiced move not forgotten in the meantime. He holds it strong and sure, keeping it cupped around the roundness. Hannibal’s other hand cups around Will’s cheek, thumb anchoring at his ear. They sit suspended in this moment, time contracting back into something more sensical. Will breathes warm air against Hannibal’s lips as they take the time to study each other with ardent sweeps of their gaze.  
  
Existing apart for a month had been _difficult_. Their kind wasn’t designed to spend time apart when expecting, quite the contrary. Expectant pairs typically cling to each other. This is a time to cement the partnership in the comfort and security of building nest and nursery. Betas feel this desire intensely; Alpha and Omega can feel nearly consumed by it. Nothing taps into instincts and biology so effectively as that of rearing.  
  
During their time apart, they called each other every day. Will easily spoke of fishing and warm Louisiana weather, while description of time spent with his father was spotty and strategic. He told Hannibal what he bought his dad for a Christmas present and how impressed his dad had been with his catch. He provided descriptions of the lures they made together and what made them so special. Will never once mentioned their pup and his father in the same sentence.  
  
Hannibal saves his questions just a little longer as he flits his eyes over Will’s delicate eyelashes. Will’s nose and cheeks are a little more tanned than they were before but they still show touches of pink in the cold. Will’s hair is long, nearly reaching his shoulder; the thick, dark curls frame his face and around his neck. Though travel-weariness shows itself in rings under his eyes, Hannibal feels the pacing of his instincts settle slightly with the recognition that Will looks overall well-fed and well-rested.  
  
“You look different,” Will murmurs into the cold, biting air. His lips are pink and rosy, softer without winter to punish them.  
  
Hannibal looks into Will’s gaze – perceptive, deceptive, open, and empty – and wonders what he sees. Hannibal has kept himself the same as he had been when Will left, the same as he has been since long before they met. For years, he has had the same haircut and style, the same close shave, the same clothes, the same diet, the same exercise, the same sleep, the same work.   
  
Will clicks his tongue against his teeth as he nearly coos, “You missed me while I was gone.”  
  
Hannibal brushes his thumb against Will’s cheekbone and curls his fingers under the edge of his jaw as he pulls Will close for a kiss. Will pulls a deep breath in through his nose as a second stretches long again; Hannibal can hear the sound echo in his ears and feel how it pulls at a charge in the air, a charge long missed since Will went away. He follows the pull and deepens the kiss, finding himself wanting to pull that breath back out again and drink the rest of Will’s air from his lungs.  
  
There is a puff of warm laughter against his lips as their moment shrinks again with the sensation of staccato movements under their flattened palms. Before Will left, the pup kicking could hardly be classified as such – at least by Hannibal’s hand. Feeling for the movement was a product of Hannibal’s focus and attention. Faint little shifts and movements against fingers and palm yearning to feel them, so curiously anticipated that he could almost believe that when he did feel them, they might have simply been a trick of the mind. No longer so faint or uncertain, the movement has grown with the source and the creator along with them both.  
  
Hannibal’s instincts rear up again. The desire to hold Will close and cover him with his scent and touch wars with the instinct to return Will and their pup to the nest and shield them from the dangers of outsiders and harsh elements.  
  
He puts the car in drive to take them all home.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There is a low thrum between them during the drive. There was a restlessness, low but present, building during their time apart. Setting his eyes on his professor and sharing the semi-privacy of the car close enough to touch, the restlessness turns to a thrum, tingling at his nerves and blurred at the edges. Having to wait the length of the car ride threatens to make him nearly woozy. The longing to move from an absence of touch to a spree and the desire to make his Hannibal _rumpled_ prickle at his palms.  
  
He smiles when Hannibal nearly twitches under the intensity of being stared at. His eyebrows take a curious, teasing spread when Hannibal chances eye contact during a red light. Regardless of his veneer, Hannibal’s scent gives him away. The scent is smooth and luxurious like one of Hannibal’s wine reductions and has an undertone of peppery spice that stings at his nose. Just before the stoplight changes, Will reaches to straighten the knot of Hannibal’s tie at the base of his throat, a paisley swirl of deep burgundy, blood red, and blushing pink.  
  
In the slow turn of Hannibal’s eyes to the road and tension in his throat, the flex of Hannibal’s strengthened control is made visible and Will finds himself thinking it makes Hannibal terribly human. It sends a pulse through Will’s veins to be able to see that no matter how well-exercised as that sense of control is, it can still be tested and strain. Hannibal maintains his composure with only a few tightenings of his fists around the steering wheel and the handle of Will’s suitcase as he carries it inside.   
  
Will follows along behind him and, with the click of the front door closed and the light clunk of the suitcase against the floor, Will grabs for handfuls of fabric, gripping Hannibal’s coat in his fingers and _tugging_. Hannibal’s hands grasp back at him in reflex, instinctively landing in wide spans against Will’s back, curling him into the protection of his hold. Will releases his fingers to instead take hold of Hannibal’s neck, yanking him downwards to press their mouths together.  
  
He threads his fingers up the back of Hannibal’s neck and into his hair, gripping and crunching gelled hair between his fingers. Will wants the power to tear away the mask. He wants to be able to see the disorderliness revealed. When they’ve kissed until he feels absolutely breathless, Will breaks away to gasp in panting breaths and yanks his fingers impatiently at the knot of Hannibal’s tie.  
  
“Will,” Hannibal rasps with panting breaths. His tongue slides across his lips before he asks, “Shall we move this somewhere else?”  
  
“Would it be proper to go to bed so early?” Will whispers against Hannibal’s neck, goading, pulling again at the tie’s loosening loop. “It’s not even sundown.”  
  
Hannibal indulges him. He doesn’t mention that Will spends plenty of time in bed sunup or sundown. He simply pets Will’s hair away from his forehead with a smile that shows the pointy edges of crooked teeth. “Retiring early would be perfectly acceptable, given the circumstances,” he states fondly.  
  
Will nods against his palm. He slides his hand away, unzips his jacket, and allows Hannibal to take it to hang up after his professor hangs up his heavy winter coat. Will trails his touch across the suit jacket that remains underneath and takes hold of Hannibal’s hand. It’s a gesture as insistent as it is tender or gentle as he pulls Hannibal back towards their bedroom.  
  
The need that buzzes within him sparks and sizzles like exposed wiring at the sight of their nest. As he crawls into it, the need for intimacy, closeness and sanctuary swirl together. He lays back against the blankets constructed like shallow walls to a fortress. Faded with time and washed away as the cologne’s collateral damage, the nest contains almost nothing of his scent. Will smothers a whine in the soft plush of a pillow.  
  
Hannibal remained where Will left him. Standing stock-still, Will can see the Alpha in him prowling at the edge of his territory, lying in wait in protection and recognition. Deeply ingrained instinct rejoices at a pregnant Omega returned to a guarded, secure home. The proud posture displays his broad shoulders. The upward tip of his head shows his distinction. His hands hang by his sides but hold strength and potential.  
  
“Take off your clothes,” Will demands when he means to ask. He catches himself on the tail end he adds a softer “ _please_.”  
  
Hannibal unfastens the only buttoned button on his suit jacket in a practiced turn of fingers. The fabric parts and only reveals the same underneath. Will keeps his eyes on each subsequent button of Hannibal’s vest and his shirt after that. Will only blinks as he pulls his own shirt over his head. The shirt gets tucked under a pillow. His jeans are rough against his skin and instead get tossed over the edge to the floor.  
  
When Hannibal joins him, they’re both bare. Without fabric to cling to, Will’s eager touch turns to nails raking down Hannibal’s chest, hair scratching back against his fingertips. He urges Hannibal to his back and turns to loom over him, raking his eyes just as he had his nails. Shoulders alluded to in clothes are laid out for him. Muscle and skin yield under Will’s fingers and strength along with them.   
  
“I want to mark you,” Will says as a musing request. “More than usual. More than just the one.”  
  
Hannibal brushes his fingers against the hair that’s fallen in Will’s face, tucks it away where it’s grown longer. If not for the curl and gravity, it might fit easily behind his ear. Instead, it falls away again as Hannibal assures, “You can.”  
  
Will sucks a mark to Hannibal’s throat first. He starts with a strategic, careful spot – nothing to inspire discomfort or awkwardness. It is a familiar spot he’s chosen before. Next comes a spot sucked to the shoulder he was admiring. Once it is deep and purple, he sets his teeth harder against the muscle, feels it yield as it did against his fingers. The clavicle comes next. He sets his teeth there first around the bone, then licks just underneath it, and finally bestows another bruise.  
  
“Will you mark me?” Will asks, nuzzling his face into Hannibal’s chest. The hair tickles at the flushes skin of his cheeks and soft skin of his lips. “Do you miss your marks too?”  
  
“My mark is not solely dependent upon the fade of bruises,” Hannibal murmurs as his fingers thread in the hair at the nape of Will’s neck.  
  
“No,” Will agrees with a shiver when Hannibal’s fingers squeeze and pull his hair in pinpricks of pleasure that run down his spine. “Your mark only grows with time.”  
  
Will follows the trail of hair downwards, kisses at skin to the side of it, and then places a mark there too. With the shift of his knees, he kneels between Hannibal’s legs and the dip of his pelvis receives another kiss and a mark of its own. Sucking the mark with a wide, insistent mouth forces Will to pull deep breaths of Hannibal’s scent swirled with salt and the thick, heady musk aroused by sex and its pheromones. When Will pulls his mouth away, he breathes it in hungrily.  
  
He licks next at Hannibal’s cock, hard and flushed and waiting. He feels the length of it with the drag of his tongue to the tip. He feels the weight of it as he wraps his lips around the head and eases it towards the back of his throat. He hears groans and feels how they pull at Hannibal’s chest and belly. He brings his mouth back and up and down again and it makes his hole clench and flutter in greed and envy. To quell it, he rubs a finger against his clit, gathers the slick, soaks his fingers, and pushes one in deep.   
  
Will pulls his mouth away with a gasp for air and pants as he asks, “Did you touch yourself while I was gone?”  
  
“I did,” Hannibal answers, the deep huskiness of his voice gives it the softness of a whisper and the harshness of a groan.  
  
“Were you thinking of me?” he asks, as he lays his cheek, hot and flushed, against the meat of Hannibal’s thigh.  
  
His mouth won’t content itself with being empty and he turns his teeth against the skin and muscle. Hannibal groans loud and low and, though Will can’t see it, he imagines Hannibal’s sharp teeth digging just as insistently into his own lip. A second finger sinks in with the first as his hole feels too empty once again.  
  
“Constantly,” Hannibal avows.  
  
“What do you want of me?” Will asks. He strokes at Hannibal’s cock with a curious, unhurried hand just to make sure the desire for touch and fog of pleasure won’t fade.  
  
“I have long wanted everything you wanted to give,” Hannibal murmurs, voice going raspy at the touch of Will’s fingers at the initial inflation of his knot. It is nowhere near as large as it could be, _will be_ , sunk just inside and locking them together, inseparable even if only for a little while.  
  
“It would benefit you to be specific,” Will says as his teeth find their way to replacing his fingers and nip lightly at the skin intended to swell.  
  
“Would it?” Hannibal gasps, the sound is dry and Will can almost hear the drag of a tongue against suddenly parched lips.  
  
“You once said you’d give so I wouldn’t have to risk asking,” Will recalls, softly but surely. “Seems I still find myself doing a lot of asking.”  
  
His back hurts from being positioned awkwardly to allow his mouth to be where he wanted and accommodate his belly at the same time. He moans as the ache throbs when he straightens. Once back in view, he studies Hannibal’s expression. There is an openness in the pulls of bated breath between parted lips but the narrowing of his eyes is at once tender and restricted – almost that of someone with a crush, resigned to watching the focus of their affection from afar.   
  
“You want everything but you’re not truly interested in giving everything in return,” Will observes as he strokes at the mark he left on Hannibal’s middle. “You’ll give me gifts, food, and shelter; what is it you’d have me do before you’ll give me your thoughts?”   
  
Hannibal places his hand over Will’s, flattening his palm against the mark. Will can’t say what it is that he sees change. Whatever it was passed so quickly that he has no chance to register it and is only left with the impression it leaves behind in his mind – something Will knows only by instinct or subconscious.  
  
“I thought of you, bare for me,” Hannibal confesses. “The very sight of you, the touch of your skin, the feel of your lips, the taste of you, the hints I’m allowed of your natural scent.”  
  
“Is that all?” Will asks, pausing and waiting. The picture Hannibal conjures is a rather subtle, passive one.  
  
“That’s first,” Hannibal murmurs.  
  
“What’s next?” Will asks as he licks his lips. “What is the fantasy that featured in your mind?”  
  
“I thought of you on top of me, glory and triumph on display,” Hannibal informs. “I dreamt of a vision for my exclusive treasuring in the halls and walls of my mind.”  
  
Will’s lips twitch in a smirk. He shifts his weight to lean against his hand. He wobbles when he leans to move his knee from within the bracket of Hannibal’s legs to outside of it. The air from a laugh rushes in between his lips and out again as he steadies himself with a press of his hand against Hannibal’s hip. He shivers as a hand brushes along his side and whimpers a moan when it lands and anchors at the fading dip of his waist, shallowing and rounding.  
  
There is pleasure and pride in the glint in his Hannibal’s eye and, for a moment, Will sees himself reflected back. Will sees the vision of him; one that glows brighter than his own – smiles more, smiles harsher. It is the embodiment of a primal radiance – burning brighter and longer with Will’s blood and breath as its fuel. He feels woozy with it – at once beautiful and terrifying, the lightning strike that creates a flame, the tornado that tears apart a town.  
  
“ _Will_ ,” comes a voice, an echo in his mind.  
  
A tender touch to his side, a grip of the fingers has Will blinking. There is a concern that flickers – a stone cast and creating ripples in pools of pleasure and pride – and the vision is broken. The world rights itself and settles, allowing Will to settle his other knee to bracket Hannibal’s hips. He feels for time and space as he grabs for Hannibal’s cock at the base, presses the head against his hole, and _sinks_.  
  
He pants shuddering, shallow breaths. He plants his hands against Hannibal’s chest as he hangs his head low between curled in shoulders. It’s a comfortable, comforting stretch, a fullness that answers a desperate ache.  
  
He had known when he left that it would be in some ways easier to not be bonded. Lacking proximity to one’s mate poses a risk to a bond that the body and mind seeks to correct. What he discovered is that without a bond, reassurance and certainty are scarce and scarcer still by the intrinsic knowledge that what would provide certainty is absent.  
  
There is muscle and bone beneath his touch and blood and breath that lay deeper still. They do not spawn the radiance as Will saw projected into his mind, but the glassy luster of a bedrock made of tourmaline, polished and shaped in the form of a man.  
  
Will rolls his shoulders and his neck along with them as he moves an arm to brace back behind him. Open and displayed just as requested, Will raises himself and lowers and feels flushed and warm and lit from the inside. The slick slide of Hannibal’s cock inside him makes him pant and whimper. Hannibal’s hand strokes from Will’s waist across and over the curve of his belly. His hand splays wide, the fit is different now. No longer contained in a palm or within the lengths of long, capable fingers, Will feels wider and rounder under the assessment of Hannibal’s touch.  
  
Will leans slightly further back, not away from Hannibal’s touch, but angled a little differently. With the next time Hannibal’s hand strokes against his skin, his cock pushes deep and hits a spot of tender pleasure.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Will whimpers as he moves and shifts his hips in fervent indecision. He wants that surge of pleasure to never end, but it’s not meant to be. He _has_ to move, has to bring himself closer and farther away to chase it. His thighs start to burn with the strain. It’s a competition between the pleasure and the ache.  
  
Pleasure wins out just when his muscles threaten to force him to surrender. His whimper chokes in his throat as his orgasm pushes air from his lungs. His hole clenches and unclenches on instinct. Even in orgasm he feels incomplete without the knot, greedy and gluttonous. Even knowing that this won’t be the only orgasm of the night, he feels almost indignant that he doesn’t have everything he wants at once. He is finally appeased with the feel of Hannibal spilling inside him and the stretch and fill of the knot. He pants out words that are an approximation of _thank you_ as he feels himself anchored and grounded.  
  
With the knot swollen and holding them together, Hannibal moves with careful deliberation to rise and hold Will closer. Cradled in Hannibal’s lap and the enclosure of his arms and legs, Will sighs deep and sinks into the hold of Hannibal’s hands at the small of his back.  
  
“Was it what you imagined?” Will murmurs breathlessly against the sticky skin of Hannibal’s throat.  
  
“There can be nothing better than the reality of you, beautiful boy,” Hannibal answers with a kiss to his sweaty, damp hair.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
When Will enters the kitchen, it’s to the sight of Hannibal making him some tea in his glass pot with an infuser. He feels a stab of affection at the sight of Hannibal’s hair mussed still from where Will cracked and crunched the gel in his grip and they tumbled together in the nest. It is perhaps a surge of self-satisfaction that convinces him he can see the purpled corner of a bruise not quite fully covered.  
  
Hannibal’s in his robe – plaid, of course, and piped with white. Will imagines he would be wearing his red sweater if Will hadn’t all but claimed it as his own. The ends of the sleeves slip too far down Will’s hands and the band at the bottom cradles itself under the swell of his belly. In the time between last time he’d worn it and now, he’s grown enough that it has lost some of its bagginess. He hasn’t gotten to the point of it straining enough to pull down at the v-neck, but it’s only a matter of time. Give him a few more months, maybe.  
  
Will comes up behind Hannibal as he pours the tea into teacups and loops his arms around his waist. Pressing his cheek against the soft fabric of the robe and bunching more of it between his fingers, he breathes in the scent of tea and breakfast and _Hannibal_.  
  
His dad’s scent is that of leather, tobacco, brine, and oil. It is comforting in its nostalgia and earthiness. Growing up, the scent had comforted him in the way it could be relied on to linger in their home and hold a presence even if his father couldn’t. Breathing in Hannibal’s crisp, clean scent is refreshing, cleansing. It’s a shower that washes away the smell of fish, sweat, and swamp. They haven’t known each other long enough for his scent to be nostalgic, but being without it had given him a sense of homesickness.   
  
Will nuzzles his face along Hannibal’s spine, tucked in between flexing shoulder blades. He waits, eyes closed, and imagines the practiced movement of Hannibal’s hands – the careful seasoning, last touches, precise plating. He takes in another deep breath and feels a purr bubble up his throat. The first time he purred was startling. Seated on Hannibal’s lap, intertwined with him in body he’d discovered contentment when his mind had felt caught in a spiraling hurricane. In the depths, he’d discovered comfort all the more potent from it being so desperately needed.   
  
He receives a purr in answer as Hannibal finishes his task. With their bodies aligned and purrs hooked together in synchronicity, moving away feels like teeth of a zipper split apart. But they do split apart as he knows they have to and he carries his untouched tea to the dining room. He would take his plate too, but he knows his professor likes to show off. As Will sits in what has become _his_ seat, Hannibal enters, carrying one plate on his arm, another in his hand, and his own tea perched in his other hand.  
  
With each item placed in their proper spot, Will expects Hannibal to take a seat, but he disappears away again through the doorway. When he returns, what’s balanced on his arms is not another set of plates or glasses. Instead, with same flair for the dramatic, he presents a large box, wrapped perfectly with silvery paper and a big, fancy bow on top.  
  
Hannibal places the gift on the table in the open space by Will’s elbow like he would a platter of perfectly crafted delicacies. “We were denied the opportunity to exchange gifts,” he offers as an explanation, no doubt in response to the surprise Will can feel unrestrained in his own expression.  
  
“Are we allowed to open gifts at breakfast? At the table?” Will asks. He feels childish for needing to. Where his question the day before was in teasing jest, today’s question makes him keenly aware of all of the etiquette Hannibal cherishes that he doesn’t know.  
  
“Yes, Will,” Hannibal reassures as he takes his seat at last, tucking the napkin into his lap. “I would not have gifted it to you here if I felt otherwise.”  
  
“Your sense of manners can lack clarity,” Will counters.  
  
“They are perfectly clear,” Hannibal replies, undeterred. “As always, you are exceptional.”  
  
“I’m not going to be able to instruct the pup to your standards.”  
  
As Will says it, he imagines a pup with unruly, curly hair that refuses the discipline of a brush. This pup is seated at a table with rows of forks, spoons, and knives of varying styles and sizes. He envisions the wide, confused eyes looking up at him, while he can only look back with the same incomprehension and lack of anything like guidance.  
  
“I do not expect that of you,” Hannibal responds distantly as he picks up his utensils. As Hannibal says this, the vision shifts to a pup with blonde, sleek hair that’s been carefully smoothed and flattened and with sharp eyes that look at Will and tell of embarrassment.  
  
Will pulls himself back from his thoughts and looks again at the present on the table. “Do I open this now?” he asks.  
  
“If you would like,” Hannibal says. “It can be saved for later if you would prefer to focus on eating.”  
  
“Hold on,” Will tells him. As Will pushes himself away from the table, Hannibal watches with his hands remaining poised, not eating but not setting his utensils aside.  
  
In the bedroom, Will finds his suitcase and unzips it to discover it utterly empty with the exception of a gift wrapped in wrinkled local Louisiana newspaper. Will realizes Hannibal must have unpacked the bag while Will was asleep. Content with looting Hannibal’s plethora of clothes, he’d forgotten to consider his own.  
  
He takes the gift in his hand and returns to the table, placing it next to Hannibal’s plate with less flourish than his own gift was given to him. Hannibal, maybe to show by example, sets aside his fork and knife and picks up the package. He turns it over in his hands as Will takes his seat and his professor nods in encouragement at Will to pick up his gift too.  
  
Will slides his fingers under the crisp fold at the end and does his best to peel away the wrapping without ripping. He lifts away the lid to a box and inside finds an expensive overcoat. The material is heavy and thick. When he carefully allows the coat to unfold and hang in his hold off to his side, he notes the structure in the cut and construction. It could not easily be confused for anything classified even in the approximate area as clothes for an expectant Omega but he can see how it will conceal and compliment his growing.  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he compliments as he brushes his fingers against the expensive fabric. “Thank you, Hannibal.”  
  
Hannibal’s smile is soft and pleased and Will feels filled with Hannibal’s satisfaction. It gives him the feeling of a job well done, a feeling snatched away quickly with the tear of Hannibal’s fingers through much cheaper paper. Will distracts himself from a pang of worry by eating a few heaping bites of breakfast and washing it down with a couple gulps of tea. Hannibal turns the book concealed within between his hands: a Cajun cookbook. There is a gap in the pages where a crinkled piece of paper is tucked within. It is well-worn as Hannibal unfolds the many folds. On one side, there is a flyer for a Louisiana pizza restaurant; on the other, in scratchy handwriting, is the rough approximation of a recipe.  
  
“Dad and I tried to write down our gumbo recipe,” Will explains quickly. “We go by taste for a lot of it so we had to guesstimate. This is as close as we could get, at least. My dad said we would need it for when I’m back here and get a craving for it.”  
  
Hannibal gets the look in his eye that Will recognizes from supervision and the very few occasions to observe him with clients: the moment of recognition when he’s been given exactly what he needs. His careful, calm tone confirms it as he says, “I assume that means he took the news well.”  
  
“Denial is a Graham trait,” Will sighs. “He could have been angry or disappointed, but he just seemed _unsure_.”  
  
“You once described your father as faded,” Hannibal reminds him with the same tone. “He may have had no reaction to give.”  
  
“He asked if I was back in Louisiana to stay. I could tell he was afraid I would say yes,” Will recounts.  
  
He can think of the look on his father’s face as he’d asked. His father has never known very well how to put up a face – or maybe he knew there may be no point with the son that he has. Will’s skills of observation have only improved through instruction and necessity since he’s known Hannibal and his father’s ability to save face suffers further for it.  
  
“He wanted to say that we can’t afford a pup,” Will says. “He was just too proud or too ashamed to actually say it.”  
  
“He believes it is the Alpha’s job to provide and he has failed you,” Hannibal says as he sips at his tea.  
  
Will watches his professor sip and return the cup to its saucer as he says, “He only asked about you once.” His voice takes a different timbre and accent as he parrots, “ _Did he stick around?_ ”  
  
“It may have hurt too much to imagine that you could follow in his footsteps: left alone with a pup to care for on your own,” Hannibal suggests as he would any other conceptualization Will has heard pass from his lips before. “He didn’t want to ask more in case it was true. In the absence of confirmation, there is hope.”  
  
“Passed from one Alpha to the next,” Will mutters as he stares at the nearly empty china plate in front of him. “I hate how that sounds. I hate that I can’t say it’s wrong.”  
  
“Family values may have declined as pack dynamics have fallen from favor, but we still help our families where we can,” Hannibal instructs him. He tilts his head in an adoring admonishment that Will imagines he might do someday to their pup. “You’re family, Will.”  
  
“He said I always was the smart one in the family,” Will says with a laugh. He’s not sure whether it’s a laugh that’s bitter or fond. “That if I thought it could be done, who was he to say different.”  
  
Hannibal hums and nods as he observes, “He can defer to your judgment because, in his eyes, you have demonstrated your independence and resilience time and time again.”  
  
“You disagree?” Will asks skeptically.  
  
“I disagree with the idea that resilience and independence were ever a choice for you,” Hannibal explains. “For his own benefit, he labels what he has done as growth-promoting.”  
  
“It’s a nice way to see it,” Will sighs.  
  
“Do you know what an imago is, Will?”  
  
“It’s a flying insect,” Will recalls, squinting in confusion. He’d had a fascination with a particular kid’s book that his dad checked out from a library just before one of their many moves. He spent the drive reading and rereading the book until he had it so well memorized that the turning of the pages became unnecessary and redundant.  
  
“It’s the final stage of a transformation,” Hannibal specifies. “Imago therapy suggests that we choose partners who remind us of our early caregivers for better or worse. There is a familiarity that drives us to click with one person over another. We seek out the traits we know how to navigate.”  
  
“I’m familiar with someone withholding and clicked with you out of familiarity,” Will infers. “I know how to deal with someone who doesn’t give freely.”  
  
If Hannibal is hurt by the assessment, he doesn’t show it. If anything, his expression seems to be a neutral, simple one in response to Will correctly answering a question. “The transformation in Imago theory involves moving pain from implicit to explicit memory, thereby transforming what seems eternally present into an obvious relic from the past,” Hannibal continues in his lecture. “It’s not healing to see your childhood home but it helps you to measure whether you are broken, how and why – assuming you want to know.”  
  
“I want to know,” Will says, a reassurance or a promise.   
  
Hannibal reaches to take his hand. He holds it as careful and sure as he holds hearts when he unwraps them from butcher paper. He holds eye contact with Will just as careful and sure as he asks, “What did you discover of yourself in your childhood home?”  
  
The dark walls lined with plants and the fireplace with its painting fall away as he thinks of his father’s home that looks more like it’s teetering on the brink of collapse. He loves his dad still, regardless of absence or withholding. But the rift that was there only grew when his dad didn’t understand a word of what he was saying when he talked about his work at the lab or his classes. All too quickly, his dad became disengaged and Will became wary. They made the unspoken decision to bond over other things they used to do together, but even then working on engines together in silence could only last so long. When Will couldn’t bend quite like he used to, the silence would act as the blare of an alarm.  
  
“I felt like a different person,” Will laments. “I didn’t fit in, couldn’t.”  
  
“Did you ever fit in?” Hannibal queries.  
  
“I could pretend to,” Will replies. He turns his keen eye towards Hannibal and studies his manners and behaviors with a different intention. He considers if there’s a word to encapsulate Hannibal losing his sibling the way orphan describes Hannibal losing his parents. “What would I find of you in your childhood home?” he asks.  
  
“My childhood home is not somewhere it has felt safe to go,” Hannibal confesses. “While it may be easier for you to find a simple serenity in the barrenness of your childhood, I find it preferable to say I hardly remember my childhood at all.”  
  
“What familiarity then do you see in me?” Will questions.  
  
Hannibal looks at him so painfully sweetly as he says, “It is perhaps the feeling that you could disappear at any moment.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Will takes cautious steps on a sidewalk that’s salted enough to be free of ice but still seems dangerously slick. He keeps a hand on the railing as he climbs the stairs towards his first class of the day and he tries to maintain a hold that’s secure, but appears casual. He should have no good reason to be afraid of the stairs.   
  
Will still has his dorm room in name and various belongings there for show but told Beverly to meet him at the classroom instead of his room to be safest. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for her to show up early and find him just returning. He is well-versed in brushing off ridicule and can face the accusation of a walk of shame. He would just rather not have to put that much energy into a charade if he can avoid it. With a racing mind and restless pup, he could hardly sleep last night. Whether from the excitement of his racing heart or a general tendency to act up just when Will wants to rest, the pup has been fully utilizing the space they make for themselves with many, many kicks and jabs.  
  
With the start of the semester, it is fortunate that Will Graham is well-versed in pretending. It is an easily flexed muscle to conceal. He’s learned that keeping his expression relatively passive is often the safest bet, particularly in the company of peers who seem suspicious at best and actively disapproving at worst. Maybe Hannibal would just say he’s adaptive.  
  
He hears a shout of _Will!_ when he’s finally reached the top and turns with casual-care a few snowy footsteps away from the stairs. Beverly bounds up without a concern, her scarf flying behind her in a combination of wind and motion. Her smile is bright and excited and, as always, sharp with cleverness. It peeks between the scarf and the thick, high turtle neck of a sweater underneath her leather jacket.  
  
“I bet you’re missing Louisiana already!” Beverly teases as they walk inside together. She pulls off her gloves and slips the beanie from her head. Her cheeks and nose are bright pink, nearly red from walking the full distance from their dorm building to here. “That coat looks warm though!” she says as she brushes dots of melted snow from his shoulder.  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Will replies as he pulls off his own beanie. A stray glob of half-melted snow falling and dripping down the back of his ear sends a shiver down his neck. It’s harsh and stark but cooling against the skin flushed under his layers.  
  
The lecture hall is still buzzing as Will and Beverly enter. Students huddle in clusters in corners of the room and nearly block the aisle at the sides. There are others talking across and over each other from their seats in the rows of built-in desks and chairs. Dr. Crawford stands at the front of the room with a woman – the TA most likely. She looks at him with wide, curious eyes set in an otherwise neutral expression as Dr. Crawford instructs her with one arm crossed and the point of a finger jabbing aimlessly into the middle distance.  
  
Will won’t forget the pleased smile on Dr. Crawford gave him when Will went to his office hours and announced his intended schedule – or rather, the smile that came when Will asked to include the one class that would need Dr. Crawford’s special approval as the instructor. With the slightly burnt scent of proud satisfaction, Dr. Crawford had been so eager to give his approval. It played directly into Will’s plan to distract him, another flex of muscle, an exercise in disguise.  
  
As he and Beverly approach a pair of seats by the aisle towards the back, Will catches the sight of bright red hair revealed from under a hat. His hands go still on the button of his coat as he grumbles, “Freddie is here.”  
  
Beverly unzips her jacket and starts to peel it away as she blinks in the direction Will is looking. She sighs with a vague detachment as she says, “Just ignore her.”  
  
“I should have known that someone who loves schadenfreude as much as Freddie does would have a passion for criminology, ” Will mutters as he watches his fingers slip the next button from its hole halfway down his chest.  
  
“ _Will_ ,” Beverly says and commands his attention. By an invisible force of strong will, she compels him to make eye contact and he feels successfully admonished when she insists, “Ignore her.”  
  
Will nods his head tightly, finishes with his coat, and slides into his seat one away from the aisle. He instantly wishes he could ask to swap with Beverly – the guy next to him smells like a breakup – but the rest of his peers finish settling in around him as the clock ticks to the start of class. The TA provides a stack of stapled papers to the students sitting at either end of the front row and the stacks travel back through the rows in a familiar flow. Beverly hands him one when she gets hers and then passes the stack passed him. Will skips over the first page and thumbs to the last two. He scans the calendar, noting the bolded deadlines and ticking away the weeks with his eyes.  
  
The progression of his pregnancy lines up with the span of the semester nearly to the day. This semester’s conclusion will round out the end of his first year at college and bring forth the first year of being a parent. In an attempt to plan for the looming future, Will wants to get as much of his work done early on as possible. He plans to take on the extra effort when he might have the energy for it in anticipation that later on in his pregnancy he might not want to do anything that takes pretty much any effort at all. Though, rubbing at his tired, dry eyes now, it’s hard to imagine this being a time when he has _more_ energy.  
  
The very last page is a vignette, a familiar friend Will anticipates growing sick of.  
  
“Welcome to Sociology 357: _Processes of Criminal Behavior_. Rather than start with the syllabus, we will be doing an activity,” Dr. Crawford announces just as Will is about to start reading. “Turn to the last page of what you were just provided. Read what is there and look up when you’re finished.”  
  
While there is a rustle of papers as his peers scramble, Will starts to study the vignette. It reads like a story: three kids find a mushroom garden comprised of dead – or almost dead – bodies. It is written almost as if it were a Grimms’ fairytale. It is plush and green and decayed and dying. It is thrumming with life and decomposing. There is the detachment with lack of details that allows for hazy softening at the edges of gore.  
  
Will looks up long before the others. He catches Dr. Crawford’s eye and sees approval. By reflex, Will looks away quickly and redirects his eyes back down to the papers in front of him. He realizes then that, in his rush to plan, he overlooked the name on the first page listed as TA: _Miriam Lass_.  
  
He doesn’t let his eyes flick back again. He has no reason to show surprise or recognition at the name. Instead, he conjures what he remembers of her in his mind to mull over. He’s been too far away for a clear scent. It’s too muddled by the variety of other bodies in the room. Instead, he thinks of her body language – proper, serious, stiff – and her clothes, which are much the same. It is the image of someone keeping contained and, as more and more of his peers’ heads tip up around him, he recognizes that his own image holds some similarity.  
  
“When you read this vignette,” Dr. Crawford starts with his booming voice and commanding tone, “What questions do you ask yourself?”  
  
A student in the front row raises their hand and, when called on, says in a tone that’s sharp with excessive enthusiasm, “What are the important details?”  
  
“They’re all important details,” Dr. Crawford corrects with an admonishing point of his finger.  
  
“What kind of mushrooms were they?” Beverly jokes, not bothering to raise her hand first. “Any shiitakes?”  
  
Will sees a pleased, morbid smile pull at Dr. Crawford’s lips as Will feels the same quirk in his own. Dr. Crawford adds a quiet chuckle as he asks, “What _other_ questions come to mind?”  
  
Another student off to Will’s right is called on and asks, “Who were the victims?”  
  
“Yes,” Dr. Crawford agrees. “What else?”  
  
“The _who_ of the victims doesn’t matter to him,” Will interjects, maybe louder than he intended. “It’s the _what_ of them.”  
  
Dr. Crawford is smirking this time as he turns to face Will and questions, “What would you ask instead?”  
  
“What _need_ does he serve?” Will insists. He can feel his teeth start to grit and the beginnings of his jaw on edge.   
  
“What need _does_ he serve?” Dr. Crawford asks him, pushing him further.  
  
“Connection,” Will declares. The fog of desperation is instinctive and immediate as is the flare of detached violence that bursts and fizzles in the back of his mind. He can almost smell the smoke of it and, carried with it, the musty scent of earth and fungus. “And, _by happy coincidence_ , power.”  
  
“Explain your thinking,” Dr. Crawford challenges. Through the haze of smoke and mildewy death, Will knows that he’s pleased.   
  
“The killer stopped viewing people as viable options for connection when they are their conscious selves,” Will explains firmly. “The only connection to be found exists in unrestrained, subconscious nature.”  
  
“Do you find loneliness to be an adequate enough excuse?” Freddie asks, her voice ringing out in a room that’s started to smell distinctly of disgust.  
  
“Those who are chronically excluded socially may only feel able to regain the loss felt in disconnection by means that provide power. Repeated efforts to feel included are meaningless. He has to create new meaning. I _understand_ that meaning,” Will articulates, teeth biting at every word. He turns his sharp eye to Dr. Crawford as he says, “Just as I understand that this activity isn’t about assessing _the killer_ , it’s about assessing _us_.”  
  
The look in Dr. Crawford’s eye and the bare of his teeth in his smile gives the feeling that Will’s just presented him with his own Christmas gift.  
  
“In this course, you will be taught to consider the factors and conditions that inform our views and conceptualizations of deviance,” Dr. Crawford announces, redirecting his own attention – and the students’ by extension – to the syllabus. Dr. Crawford flips back to the front page, but doesn’t need to look at the paper as he recites, “You will also learn about the relationship that these factors have with personal and social maladjustment.”  
  
As Dr. Crawford continues to recite his description of the course, Will wipes a hand at his face and finds a dewy sweat and he tries to suppress the shake in his hand as he pushes the stack of papers away. He can feel his heart in his chest – calm when questioned but pounding now. The pup gives a kick at the excitement – or maybe the start of hiccups as they seem also to be prone to – and Will focuses his breathing hoping for both of them to calm.  
  
Dr. Crawford spends the rest of class with a review of the syllabus and an instruction to go to his TA with questions – a redirection Will ignores because he knows he can. It’s a bit of a scramble to wave off Beverly and catch Dr. Crawford, but he manages. Will approaches the Alpha just as he’s nearing the exit and asks, “Dr. Crawford, can I talk to you for a minute?”  
  
“I have a meeting,” Dr. Crawford answers gruffly. “Let’s talk as we walk.”  
  
Will walks alongside him down the hallway and back outside into the bitter cold. They don layers and gloves as they go and he can feel Dr. Crawford examine him out of the corner of his eye as the professor tips his hat onto his head.  
  
“What did you think of class today, Will?” Dr. Crawford asks curiously.  
  
“I assume I passed the test,” he replies.  
  
“Seems like Dr. Lecter has been teaching you well.”  
  
“I’ve learned a lot from Dr. Lecter,” he says honestly. It’s a compassionate break from all the camouflage and concealment, even if only a small one.  
  
It’s a break cut short when Will hears the hope in Dr. Crawford’s tone as he asks, “Are you here to ask to switch labs?”  
  
“I think I still have things to learn. Dr. Lecter has a certain personality style we can all learn from – in moderation, of course,” Will answers, watching the fall of snow and mill of many student bodies around them. He hopes the rumination in his tone can be misinterpreted as considering the view. “I want to see the study to its conclusion.”  
  
“I can appreciate your ambition and commitment,” Dr. Crawford says with a hum. “What can I help you with then?”  
  
“I was hoping I could go first for the presentation,” Will requests.  
  
“I’m glad to hear that you’re taking an interest in your studies, Will,” Dr. Crawford praises. “I look forward to your contributions during the semester.”  
  
“Thank you, Dr. Crawford.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Will slumps heavily into the chair, one of many unforgiving plastic ones set in a line facing the whiteboard. The writing on the board is more like lettering than what would be expected of handwriting, though he knows even this lettering is not to the degree of calligraphy Hannibal is capable of. Dry erase marker doesn’t hold the same potential for gravitas as pens or scalpel-sharpened pencils do, he supposes.  
  
His back already aches from sitting in unpadded, uncomfortable desks all day. It’s only the second week of classes and he hardly imagines fitting into them when all is said and done. He rolls his shoulders and his neck against the ache. He would stretch his back if it wouldn’t threaten to emphasizes the curve of his belly. He has to content himself instead with the stretch of his arms across his chest. He can stretch out in an hour or two when he’s back in the security of Hannibal’s house and Hannibal can work out some of the kinks with the sure touch of his hands.  
  
Hannibal’s eyes flit to him for a second as he talks with Alana. His professor doesn’t show that he’s noticed or even recognized Will. His face remains a smooth, handsome blank. Without a smile or a frown, his lips sit in their natural pursed state. Will flits his own eyes away, following Hannibal’s example, and instead looks to Alana. She nods seriously at Hannibal with a stern mouth and furrowed brow before she turns away with heavy, determined steps. Will tries to use the fading thunking sound to distract himself from everything Hannibal – even if the pup seems to flip in Will’s belly at the sight of him, picking sides and favorites already. He was awoken just last night by the activity of a pup excited by the vibration of their sire’s purr.  
  
His Dr. Lecter clears his throat quietly enough to be polite but loud enough to command attention and, once he has it, begins his training. While watching Hannibal describing the codebook, how to use it when reviewing the recorded sessions, and the crucial role of interrater reliability in coding, Will can feel the emotions in the crowd around him: confusion, anxiety, uncertainty, and a certain kind of desire. He drinks in his peers’ desire – sharp, sweet, and little bitter. It’s the desire one feels for approval and praise. As he pulls the scent in his nose and between his slightly parted lips and sharpened teeth, he remembers again the fantasies he once whispered in Hannibal’s ear.  
  
Those fantasies have held an ever-shifting meaning: pleasurable, then tinged with regret, then pleasurable again, and now they exist in a space somehow akin to passionate reassurance. He thought about those words many times when he was away, when he was texting Hannibal or calling him and when he was turning in for bed. Since their exchange of gifts and vulnerabilities, he and Hannibal have seemed to grasp for the physical, carnal pleasures with equal parts hope and desperation.   
  
In their nest, with sweat drying and breaths panting, Hannibal whispered to him words of a chrysalis. With caressing hands and soft lips, Hannibal spoke of erstwhile skin that gives way to a harder one that’s made of gold and fastened with hooks and silk. He whispered to Will tales of how within that golden shell instinctual information is unlocked bit-by-bit from cells that liquify themselves – a gilded consumption for transformation. Will could almost feel it there in the nest – their consuming and liquifying – grasping with hooks and silk into whatever hold they can manage and waiting with the anticipation for the emergence of a potential not yet realized.  
  
The fog of Will’s brain forgets how many days ago that was now.  
  
Another drag of the scent of desire pulls at him. That the scent is not his own makes it enticing. That the praise and approval they crave from Hannibal belongs instead to him makes it intoxicating. He lays his arm in his lap. It’s casual enough not to enhance the curve but he chances a heavy press of his fingers against the skin stretching along his side.  
  
In this moment, his past fantasies feel short-sighted, simply taking pleasure in the idea of being filled and dripping. At the time of his initial whispers, he hadn’t considered what a thrill there could be in the act of hiding a growing pup instead. Rather than dripping with the proof of a passing indiscretion, he instead carries a growing secret, a constant reminder of the pleasing misdeeds of their making.  
  
_The things that should feel bad feel good_ , he remembers. Hannibal’s ability to so drastically alter his life and set Will on a different path for the rest of his days – Will isn’t sure if that’s something he _shouldn’t_ be aroused by or _should_.  
  
He shifts in his seat and can feel the slick that’s already soaking. The shift presses the seam of his pants to rub unforgivingly against his clit and a breath gets caught wet and tense in his teeth. He wants to flee to Dr. Lecter’s office, enclose himself in the space that smells most like his professor.  
  
He wants to wait there, wait for Hannibal to finish his training, wait for the students fawning for attention to finally face disappointment and leave. He wants his professor to pass students in the hallway, who whisper and gossip just out of earshot about the beauty in his face and handsomeness in his suits. He wants Hannibal to discover him wet and impatient in his office. He would be already bare, unable to help himself but touch while he waited.  
  
“This is an indecent thing you’ve done, dear Will,” his Hannibal might say. He might click is tongue but Will would know he was pleased. The subsequent click of the lock would confirm it.  
  
“You like me indecent, Dr. Lecter,” Will would gasp, maybe already two or three fingers deep.  
  
Will would want to fuck against the bookshelf, he thinks. He imagines liking to grasp at the wood and force open his eyes to blink at titles of books used as the offerings in their courtship. Will would flush and his head would rush with the pleasure at the sight of them. Hannibal would touch him, feel the heat under his skin and, with Will open and waiting for him, push deep inside and press against him from behind. Will would feel expensive fabric against the sensitive skin of his shoulders, his back, his thighs. In the fantasy, Hannibal could put his teeth against Will’s neck in ways neither of them would risk in life. Will could pant and whimper at the feel of sharp, crooked teeth with fear and uncertainty forgotten in the distance.  
  
“You should know that I could never leave you, not now,” Will might say as he’s been wanting to, as was on the tip of his tongue at that breakfast weeks ago, and as has been caught in his throat every day since. He would press Hannibal’s hand, firm and strong and sure, against his belly as it’s growing firm and strong and sure. “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”  
  
He pushes away the echoing thought of Hannibal leaving him the way he disappears unwelcome guests during his mental fishing trips. He imagines it to be how a locked door could keep away any potential interloper that dares to knock.  
  
“You have me in mind and body,” Will would gasp in panting breaths. The hang of his belly would pull at his back, even within the hold of Hannibal’s hand. “There would be no way for me to disappear.”  
  
The thrusts that were unrelenting, powerful and determined stutter haphazardly to a stop as Will fails to imagine what panacea of reassurance could then pass from Hannibal’s lips.  
  
“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal’s voice cuts through the fantasy and Will blinks his eyes open, having not even realized he closed them. “You ought to pay attention, Will,” his professor instructs.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’s a bit stuffy in Alana’s apartment. She lives above a pizza parlor, so while the winter cold is biting, it’s overcome by the excess heat of ovens burning hot. Missing the muddle of many bodies from last time, the smell of dough and tomato competes with Alana’s scent and Margot’s. Will continues to be plagued by a near constant craving for pizza; so to say that the smell turns his stomach is truly saying something. He presses the button on his wrist and wills Alana’s and Margot’s comparatively bland and soothing scents to come out victorious.  
  
The stuffiness seems to also collect against his skin in the form of sticky, damp air trapped under a university sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big. When Alana complemented it, he told her that his dad bought it for him for Christmas when in fact he’d done nothing of the sort. She seemed content and willing to believe that his dad would do something so easy and wholesome as buy university merchandise.  
  
Will sits cross-legged on Alana’s floor with Applesauce by his side. Getting to the floor gracefully was a challenge that Will performed when Alana and Margot turned their backs as gracious hosts to get him a drink and snack. The feel of the dog’s soft, spotted fur prompts another moment of déjà vu that only serves to highlight the differences in circumstances. The soft strands move between his fingers as he gives her a good rub and he smiles at the happy look on her face.  
  
“Do you ever wish you could swap places with her? Even just for a day?” Will muses aloud as he takes the hot cocoa Alana offers to him.  
  
He certainly doesn’t need the warmth but won’t turn down the sugar. Hannibal would disapprove of anything dissolved from a packet, only rich chocolate melted under a watchful eye would do. The pup has developed the ability to not only taste the differences in what Will eats, but react to them too, which has brought a particular flavor of delight to Hannibal’s culinary creations – dinner and a show.  
  
“It certainly would be simpler,” Margot responds.  
  
Margot matches her scent, as Will knew she would. It’s a picture Will painted in his mind from his first whiff at the party and a perfect match that Dr. Crawford would be particularly pleased by. Will had known Margot was an Omega like him and close in age to Alana. She is feminine, elegant and composed. There is an expensiveness in her clothes and elegance in her style that invokes the power of armor. There is a breathiness to her voice and tone that creates a vacuum in the dissonance.  
  
“Dogs are just better than people,” he laments as he gives Applesauce some scritches behind the ear.  
  
“Dogs keep a promise a person can’t,” Alana counters from her seat with Margot on the couch. Her expression is soft – a sweet smile, the angle at which she peeks from under her lashes is almost demure – but the look in her eye is telling.  
  
“I know that look,” Margot says for him.  
  
“You asked me about our relationship,” Alana suggests directed towards him.  
  
“Um, yes,” Will says with a too hot gulp of his cocoa. His sweat feels tackier under his sweatshirt.   
  
“I was surprised,” Alana admits. “You don’t seem like you date.”  
  
“Too broken to date?” Will bemoans teasingly as a distraction, a hand pressed to his broken heart.  
  
“You’re not broken,” Alana corrects. “You only vaguely even hinted at someone once. I didn’t want to assume it was anything serious.”  
  
“Or that there is only one someone,” Margot contributes. She shrugs nonchalantly when Alana gives her a sharper look. She looks at Will pointedly and then back at Alana as she says, “Have you looked at his neck?”  
  
“There is someone,” Will admits because he has to. “Only _one_ someone.”  
  
Alana turns away from her partner and leans towards Will as she asks, “Do we get to know about this person?”  
  
Will shrugs as he replies, “I’m a private person, I guess.”  
  
“Have _you_ looked at your neck?” Margot says. Will can sense that there’s a laugh buried deep in her tone. “With a neck like that, it’s not exactly a secret.”  
  
“I just…don’t want to mess anything up,” he says, choosing the words that are true enough.  
  
“I was like that too,” Alana sympathizes. “Dating seemed like something for somebody else a couple years ago. I was sure I had to become somebody different, one that didn’t think quite so much.”  
  
“Did you?” Will asks.  
  
“I think that thinking too much will always be part of my pathology,” Alana says. “It’s just about making sure it’s not malignant _._ ”  
  
Will gives himself a distraction in the sudden sneeze that comes from Applesauce. He smiles and scrunches his nose at her as he pats at her head and cups his hand under her muzzle. He looks into her wide, open eyes as she blinks back at him. When he looks long enough, her ears perk in excitement and her tail starts to thump against the floor.   
  
“I’m going to take Applesauce out,” Alana announces. “She’s getting that look.”  
  
“Good,” Margot says, a tease in the lilt of her tone and a sparkle of genuine praise. “Gives us a chance to talk about you.”  
  
Alana laughs softly as she fetches the keys and leash from a table by the door. The jangle of keys makes the dog perk in excitement and she bolts away from Will’s outstretched hand. Alana hooks the leash to Applesauce’s collar and they slip away out the door.  
  
“Not the most subtle,” Margot observes. “Is she more subtle in therapy? I’ve always wondered but it’s something I’ll never truly be able to know.”  
  
“It depends.”  
  
“Not another _‘it depends_ ,’” Margot bemoans softly. “I thought the not-so-hidden agenda tonight was for you and I to share with each other.”  
  
Will sighs and considers. He recalls his observations of Alana from behind a window. He thinks about the various clients and various interventions that had informed his answer of _it depends_ and tries to identify patterns that will appease her.  
  
“She doesn’t always have a particularly neutral expression,” Will observes. “She can get a little stern. Her mouth gets tight and her eyebrows scrunch in.”  
  
“Serious, listening face,” Margot agrees, seeming very familiar with the phenomenon.  
  
Will huffs a laugh and explains, “It seems to work well. Her clients feel paid attention to and invested in. Beyond that becomes whatever interpretation suits them.”  
  
“Once Alana has declared you one of her own, it can be very difficult to deter her. It’s the only way she can manage to do everything her PI asks of her without falling to pieces,” Margot agrees. “What’s he like? I haven’t gotten to know that either and Alana refuses to do anything else but sing his praises.”  
  
“She might have learned the serious, listening face from him,” Will replies, carefully choosing his words – at least he is in good company in that regard. “Though he’s cultivated his to be a little more neutral.”  
  
“Does he make you work as hard as he makes Alana?” she asks.  
  
He wants to say _yes_. He wants to say that sometimes he isn’t sure exactly how hard he’s working, but it feels like it could be the equivalent of writing a paper – research, constructing, editing, presenting it for review.  
  
“It would be an understatement to say coding is a lot of work for a reward that feels really far off,” Will answers instead.  
  
Margot looks away as she sips at her hot chocolate. The mug looks strange and out of place in her delicate hand – too heavy and thick when what she holds should feel as light and slight as she does.  
  
“You don’t have to keep sitting on the floor,” she observes and suggests.  
  
Will looks to the couch and can admit that the softness of it is enticing. Moving to his knees and then his feet includes a slight stumble. “My leg fell asleep I think,” he half-lies when he sits opposite her.  
  
Margot doesn’t acknowledge what he said, doesn’t comment on his stumbling, or remark that he’s joined her. “The Vergers slaughter 86,000 cattle a day and 36,000 pigs depending on the season,” she discloses instead. “But that’s just the public carnage.”  
  
Will looks at her curiously as he asks, “What’s your private carnage?”  
  
“My brother,” she replies with a strange, high-pitched inflection. Her voice returns easily to its even tone as she asks, “What’s your private carnage?”  
  
“It’s been suggested to me that I may have the equivalent of _daddy issues_ ,” Will murmurs, scanning his eyes across the decorations around the apartment – framed pictures of Margot, Alana, and Applesauce being the most prominent. “Though it wasn’t said quite so crassly.”   
  
“We have some very similar issues,” she observes with a hum. “I can sympathize with having everything condensed down so plainly when it certainly doesn’t _feel_ plain.”  
  
“I’ve been told we look for what’s familiar in our partner,” he says as if sharing a tidbit of insight in a support group.  
  
“Is that so?” Margot replies contemplatively. “Alana couldn’t be further from what’s familiar. She has actual emotions. And she thinks I’m a person, not a plaything.”  
  
“That always helps,” Will remarks.  
  
“You could find similarities if you wanted to. She can account for my emotions in ways that my family could,” Margot expresses. “Our conflict can tend to center on when Alana knows that I’m lying about how I’m feeling. That’s a dance I am familiar with, I suppose.”  
  
“What do you think helps?”  
  
“I have learned to enjoy the predictable,” Margot offers. “I know that when Alana returns she will be smiling and I know nothing sinister hides behind that smile. I don’t have to be afraid of smiling anymore.”  
  
The scrape of nails on wood, the clambering of excited legs up stairs, and the bubble of light, airy laughter signal the return of Alana and Applesauce. Margot tips some more hot chocolate into her mouth and looks at Will in patient amusement as the pounding of boots and jingle of keys grow closer. Will studies the pleased glimmer in her eyes until the moment the door opens and those eyes turn away and point meaningfully at the bright, hopeful smile that spreads across Alana’s face.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
When he knocks on the office door, Will can hear the movement of feet. The scent of roses and a prick of blood on a thorn spills out as the door opens.  
  
“Good afternoon, Will,” Anthony says in greeting and goodbye as he winks and brushes by to disappear down the hallway.  
  
“Come in,” Dr. Du Maurier greets from her seat behind her desk. It looks different when she sits in it. Although it does in fact belong to her, most of the time when he’s seen this scene, Hannibal has been sitting in that chair. The scent of arousal in the air is one that he similarly associates with himself and Hannibal in this room. As he recognizes the way it intertwines with the smell of leather and raw honey, it too holds a different meaning.  
  
As much as it frustrates Will to know of Dr. Du Maurier’s pseudo-hypocrisy, it also comforts him. Her flaws allow for his. Where she has always held the quality of the ethereal, there are now earthly things that they share.  
  
“Poor, Dr. Du Maurier,” he tuts sardonically. “Denying yourself the forbidden fruit. Denying yourself the knowledge of good and evil.”  
  
“Hello, Will,” she says as if she expects exactly this of him – nothing less, nothing more. She tidies papers on her desk casually, as if they weren’t spread in disorder by some unprofessional closeness and a little improper behavior. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
“I need to talk to you,” he insists.  
  
“The polite thing to do would be to make an appointment. Didn’t Hannibal teach you that?” she says with her sardonic admonishment. “Though I suppose I know why he might elect to overlook that particular lesson. You’ve managed to bring out the impolite in him.”  
  
“Do you usually hold this much contempt for a student?” Will asks. “Or do I get special treatment?”  
  
“You’ve certainly enjoyed special treatment,” Dr. Du Maurier agrees. “However, you know very well that there is no contempt.”  
  
In that moment, his resentment for the bitter almond scent comes not because of the nausea that has become his constant companion, but the way it unflinchingly confirms her truth.  
  
“I want to collaborate on a conceptualization,” he insists again.  
  
“Of Hannibal,” she concludes.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She looks at him closely. Will can see a curiosity that looks much like Hannibal’s in her eyes. He knows she isn’t surprised by his boldness or disregard. He gets the distinct feeling that what holds her curiosity is the possibility for where this conversation could go. “You took offense last time I seemed to break Hannibal’s privacy,” she reminds him.  
  
He grips at the strap of his bag as he states, “Circumstances have changed.”  
  
“What are you trying to conceptualize?” she asks him indulgently.  
  
“Is Hannibal in love with me?” he asks, gritting his teeth reflexively against the question.  
  
The curiosity in her eyes sparkles brighter and she folds her hands together as she asks, “Why is my answer to that question important to you?”  
  
“I can’t ask just anyone,” he demands.   
  
“You could ask him,” she counters.  
  
He knows it, of course. It’s the most obvious solution. He also knows what the answer to the question would be – well, he _mostly_ knows it. He just needs someone to say it to be sure. He knows there is a part of him that asks her because of the similarities she holds with the one he should truly be asking. “There is risk in asking a question,” he replies.  
  
She purses her lips and tilts her head as she reminds him, “You wouldn’t have reason to ask me this question if you were truly afraid of risk.”  
  
“Not all risk is the same,” he remarks and then, for good measure, pointedly adds, “You know that.”  
  
“The risk for disappointment,” she infers, seeming to refuse to become flustered. “The risk for dashed hopes and the embarrassment of hoping. Is it more embarrassing for you to not know how Hannibal feels or not know how you feel?”  
  
“I have found it reassuring to not always know how exactly he feels,” he says. He can feel how hollow it is in his throat and he knows if he can feel it, then she will hear it.  
  
“That’s changing,” she remarks with some surprise added to the building curiosity.  
  
Will holds his gaze to the left of her shoulder as he forces the question that he practiced on his way here to work over his tongue and pass through his lips: “How does he love me?”  
  
Her eyebrows take on the slight curve of surprise as she asks, “What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Exactly as I say,” he mutters. “I think it was pretty clear.”  
  
“Are you asking me how he _loves_ or how loves _you_?”  
  
The clench at his chest forces out a pained sigh as he complains, “I should have known better than to come to you.”  
  
“This is why you came to me,” she insists. Her voice is softer. She uses the ever-present quietness to her favor. “What I am doing is exactly what you wanted whether or not you will acknowledge it.”  
  
“Fine,” he says with the clench of his jaw. He can feel the muscles ache already. “How does Hannibal love?”  
  
“Hannibal’s love is one that comes from deeply buried anger, sadness, and loss,” she explains _finally_. “It is a love that has become so reactively preoccupied with details, rules, and order that the major point of it is lost.”  
  
He examines the smooth planes of her face and perfect curl of her hair as he asks, “Is love meant to have a point?”  
  
“Cultivating an image based on what one thinks is wanted creates a love for a construction and not a person, which is nearly equivalent to no love at all,” Dr. Du Maurier instructs him. “The _point_ is to discard the construction, which Hannibal may struggle to fully understand even if he wished to, even if he believes that is what he is already doing.”  
  
“You don’t sound optimistic,” he says with another sigh.  
  
“Therapy hinges on the knowledge that what is difficult can be possible and what is healing can be everyday,” she says.  
  
Her expression takes on a kindness in the tilt of her lips and tightening of her eyes. For a moment, Will wonders what’s changed in how she sees him to make her look at him less like someone troublesome and more like someone to care for. He remembers her looking at him like that before, but that feels like a long time ago.  
  
“You already nourish and heal him just with the sight of you,” she reassures. “Ultimately, the important question will not be if he loves you, but if you love him.”  
  
“I don’t think you should be the person I tell the answer to,” he acknowledges.  
  
“No,” she says with a wider, even more indulgent smile. “I’m not.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There is sizzling on the stove and the smell of cooking vegetables and meat in the air. Hannibal turns to check what’s cooking in the Dutch oven on the burner and, seeing good progress, he picks up his wine glass and takes a deep sip. Will appears as he swallows the last of a long drink. Although he stands up straight, something in how Will holds himself makes him seem hunched and Hannibal tries to not give the bloom of uncertainty in his chest more space than it already has. He hasn’t mentioned it to Will as such but Imago therapy also dictates enduring anxiety in the name of eradicating the pests to be found in old fears. It is a knowledge Hannibal has used many times over the past weeks of waiting.  
  
“Hello, Will,” he greets as he lowers his wine glass. “I’m making gumbo as you requested.”  
  
Hannibal can see Will’s lips twitch in amusement even if the rest of his expression remains severe and distant. This isn’t the first time Will has made such a request and it’s not the first time he has gotten away with it due to the sheer fact that Will likes that Hannibal will do as he asks and Hannibal likes seeing the look in Will’s eyes when Hannibal cooks based on a recipe on a worn, crinkled piece of paper rather than from the rolodex of carefully written cards. Hannibal assumes it’s the same look that he gets in his eye when looking at Will in his coat. He may even have the same look in his eyes now as he looks at Will in his sweater.  
  
“I spoke with Dr. Du Maurier,” Will announces, staring off in the middle distance near some cabinets.  
  
“Dr. Du Maurier?” Hannibal repeats, feeling the shape of the sounds on his tongue. Her name is not the first he would expect, but he supposes it may also not be the last either. “Was that your choice or hers?”  
  
“I was feeling lost,” Will explains. “Not anymore.”  
  
“Fascinating,” he replies. His tone is more clipped than he intended. The bloom of jealousy ought to receive the same treatment as his anxiety.   
  
“I could never leave you, not now,” Will insists and he looks directly at Hannibal now with a deeper intensity, the slope of his shoulders holds beauty as the hunched hesitance fades. Will places a hand against his rounded middle as he says, “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”  
  
Hannibal picks up his wine as a solace instead of a reward as he counters, “You know as well as I do that a pup isn’t a guarantee.”  
  
Will nods and rubs a hand at his neck as he gives it a tense twist. The rub is harsh enough that it might leave a fleeting pink stain.  
  
“Do you ever worry as your father does?” Hannibal asks. “That I may leave you with a pup to care for?”  
  
“No,” Will answers immediately, without a second thought. “Not really. I don’t think of it exactly like that. I can accept that it’s an _issue_ to worry about being left, but I believed you when you said you wanted a pup. I can see it in how you look at me and feel it in your touch.”  
  
Hannibal swirls the wine glass another time just to watch the liquid spin and settle as he asks, “Do you want to leave?”  
  
“No,” Will answers firmly as he steps forward, walks around the kitchen island, and crowds into Hannibal’s space.  
  
Hannibal allows a breath to exhale at a controlled, contented pace as he observes, “Then we share the fear of the other leaving and share a lack of interest in going anywhere.”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
Hannibal turns his head to look at Will, so close that he can see the fan of eyelashes around eyes shaped wider with affection and looking back at him in determination. Will lays his fingers over Hannibal’s lips, not harsh or gripping, but ensuring a pause.  
  
“I’ve felt it for a while and I’ve been meaning to say it, but I’m afraid that if I say it, then you’ll want to bond,” Will explains in a rush. “And before you say it, it’s not because of my dad – or not _just_ because of him. There are other reasons.”  
  
Hannibal takes hold of Will’s wrist gently. He presses a kiss to the fingers that silence him before urging them away. Will allows his hand to drop easily – it’s already performed its duty – and as it falls away he turns it to take Hannibal’s hand in his grip.  
  
“Relationships can sometimes seem to involve a breach of established individual separateness,” Hannibal reassures. “Remaining unbonded is your last fort.”  
  
“I already can’t get you out of my head,” Will says with a sharp laugh and the glint of sharp teeth bared. “You’re always there one way or another – sometimes in the background, sometimes in the forefront.”  
  
Hannibal feels the weight of Will’s hand in his, focuses on it as he remarks, “No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. By that love, we see potential in our beloved. Through that love, we allow our beloved to see their potential. Expressing that love, our beloved’s potential comes true.”  
  
“The next stage of our transformation,” Will agrees with a hum. His teeth hide away in a softer smile as he says, “We’re getting awfully _mushy_.”  
  
“I hope that in love you can grow to trust your own awareness of me,” Hannibal confesses. “As I have developed my awareness through my love of you.”  
  
Hannibal sees the glimmer of gold and feels the fine softness of silk as Will crowds against him. The anxiety and jealousy wither in darkness as Will leans in. Will’s mouth presses against his in a kiss like a wax seal – molten and with a definitive stamp all his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouts out to HigherMagic for having a super long writing stream that really helped me to get a lot of this done. Also, I feel really grateful that I could take time off of work for my birthday so that I could do nothing but hang out and write fanfic...otherwise who knows how long this would have taken me. 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I always look forward to it!


	7. Chapter 7

_Will feels heavy and weighted, limbs lax and lazy. He burns hot everywhere, it sizzles at his skin and seeps from his veins like blood pours from a steak cooked rare. Warmth coats his skin and a layer of sweat along with it to form a heavy blanket of humidity. He recalls the swamps of Louisiana in late summer and the aching need to be filled that comes with every season. It’s worst in the summer. It was the turn of summer into fall when he’d felt it last.  
  
He sluggishly writhes with the way his clit demands attention and touch. Everything feels so empty. There’s no nest underneath him to cradle him, just an open void. Though he’s already scorching and scalding he whimpers from the inability to bury himself in blankets and share the warmth with other body. His legs fall bent and open, exposing himself further with the hope that the breeze of open air might cool him.  
  
The slide into him is so slick and so smooth and so satisfying that for a brief moment he forgets the starved emptiness. The moment doesn’t last. He wants more. There’s something in him that tells him there’s still something missing. This isn’t enough.  
  
Will feels a swoop of relief as Hannibal appears above him. Will couldn’t forget him, but it’s like realizing him all over again. Hannibal hovers over him and floats so easily he’s like a ghost. There is the heavy pressure of being filled and the touch of just the tips of fingers against his skin, but the rest of Hannibal seems so far away. Will whimpers when there are no breaths brushing against his cheeks and the weight of Hannibal between his thighs is absent. He whines with the fear that if he blinks, his partner might disappear.  
  
Will wants to make this ghost real under his grasp and pull him close, but his arms don’t seem to cooperate. In the deep expanse of empty space around him, he feels a nothingness akin to how his eyes might search the pitch-black night.  
  
But there is light from a fire. He can see it in the way it gleams against Hannibal’s teeth. Will turns his cheek as the reflection gives off a heat that turn his cheek pink. A lick crosses slick and wet against his neck. It presses firmly against the gland that sits swollen and demanding. A wave of hazy pleasure crashes over him and drowns away everything else in his mind. Will moans as the feeling spills down his spine and washes across his clit. Each lick is another stroke and another thrust. Together they pull him closer and closer to what he desires and nearer to the edge as a waterfall has its pull towards a sharp, steep cliff.   
  
“Hannibal,” he begs. There is the choke of a sob and the fruitless clench of his fist. He’s so near to the plunge. His heart pounds with how he’s just as excited as he is scared. He starts to worry there’s something he’s forgetting. “Hannibal, please.”  
  
There is a chuckle, deep and rumbling, almost a purr and Will can feel the vibration ripple across his skin like the ripple that cascades outward around a hook. It carries the pleasure further downstream and pools in the slick that drips and pours from between his legs. He curves his body into the press of the tongue and push into his hole, opens himself wider. When the bite of teeth lands next instead of the pass of a lick, the shock sends him over into the free fall. Teeth sink in fast and deep and gravity shifts as he falls, tumbling through midair and waiting to hit the ground.  
_  
  
\---  
  
  
Will barely knows he’s awake before his orgasm hits him. The tongue that drags across his hole and against his clit has him reeling with no chance of sinking his nails into anything to give himself any traction. He gasps in a rush as the pleasure overtakes him and pants heavy breaths until he feels himself fall back against the plush of the nest. When he opens his eyes, they’re bleary with sleep and hazy with pleasure. When he looks down his chest, all he sees is the curve of his belly. Hannibal has disappeared on the other side of it as it has grown and now there is nothing to see but the swell of it and there’s nothing to reach for but the edge of a shoulder near his hip.  
  
Hannibal emerges like the sun rising and the light that peeks in from the curtains creates a line against his face that curves with the rise of his cheekbone and dip of his cheek. Hannibal’s hair is a mess as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He crawls to Will, lies down next to him, and places a warm, soft kiss to his cheek.  
  
“Good morning,” Will whispers, throat dry and rough with sleep. “What a nice way to wake up,” he says, as he has said every morning when Hannibal has woken him up like this.  
  
“Good morning, my love,” Hannibal whispers against his skin, almost as if each word might sink into his skin. When Will blushes, he has to admit it might be true. The stinging pink of it certainly seems like a version of Hannibal’s love.  
  
Things have changed now that they know that they love each other. The shifts haven’t been radical, but if there is anything Hannibal has taught him, it’s that even the slightest change can be significant. Since the moment he met Hannibal, any twist of his lips has given reason for close study. Will nuzzles against Hannibal’s cheek until he turns enough for Will to get to truly look at his partner and see for himself the self-satisfied smile that Hannibal wears. Will has looked at those lips and felt the fingers that brush through his hair hundreds of times, but he’s never seen Hannibal wear a smile quite so soft or felt the brush of fingers quite so reverent as he does now.  
  
When just looking at the smile no longer suffices, he grabs at the hair at the back of Hannibal’s head and pulls them together. He wants to taste Hannibal’s happiness as he can see it in his eyes and smell it on his skin. Will wants to bury himself in it and kiss Hannibal until he reeks so much of happiness that there are no longer even the barest hints of the scent of fatigue that clings to their nest, leeched out of them in what little sleep they seem to share.  
  
Will has sacrificed the idea of ever truly feeling well-rested again in favor of throwing himself headfirst into getting his schoolwork done. He stays up late into the night studying, researching, writing papers, and working on projects and wakes up early in the morning to go to class. He has readings and assignments done weeks ahead of time. If he finishes a project faster than expected, he just moves on to the next one. It feels like too much of a risk to put anything off later into the semester. The fear of running out of steam towards the end of his pregnancy keeps his momentum going even when a lot of the time he barely feels like he can keep his eyes open.  
  
Hannibal seems as determined to get his analyses done, literature written, and feedback provided as Will is to finish papers and assignments. Hannibal works against the clock – staying at his desk in the study until past midnight, sending Alana and Frederick critiques and criticisms on their dissertation chapters, and, when the edits are returned, sending another round in short succession. Will has heard whispers around the lab that Hannibal is worse and more demanding than he has ever been.  
  
Living together and loving each other hasn’t kept Will from missing him. He savors Hannibal’s presence and his touch with a sense of joy that’s tinged slightly by the constant longing for more. He pulls Hannibal into the nest whenever he can, curls himself in Hannibal’s hold to keep him there, and tries to tell himself that the ache he feels in his chest is a growing feeling and not just a pained one.  
  
He feels hungry for Hannibal all the time now. In the softness of this early morning hour, Will presses their mouths together with a sense of starvation. As they kiss, Will squirms closer. He molds himself as best as he can to Hannibal’s body – though, in truth, Hannibal’s body is the one that is molded. Will’s belly is a constant, unyielding presence that won’t be smaller for a couple more months.   
  
As much as the pup has been prominent, they have also been almost polite. They don’t grow too big to hide or too small as to worry them. Their pup is perfectly sized for good health _and_ good subterfuge. Every movement is as miraculous as it is that the movement itself has not been noticed. Little arms and legs have languished in relatively generous amounts of room for long enough and now they push and stretch with a developing strength and coordination.  
  
Will finds Hannibal’s hand and slides it to feel how their pup pushes against the confines of their temporary home inside him. He watches the veins and tendons on strong, sure hands as Hannibal’s fingers drift softly along his bare skin and feels a shiver run down his spine. Laid bare here in their nest together, Hannibal’s soft skimming touch is enough to follow the distortions along his belly. Will is sure it’s an elbow Hannibal’s touch follows next, followed by a swooping swirl as the limb tucks itself away. As Hannibal trails his fingers across the stretched, sensitive skin and the pup follows him with their movements, Will has the odd feeling that he’s done something _right_.  
  
“My loves,” Hannibal murmurs with the same reverence as is laced with his touch.  
  
Will knows this touch is for Hannibal’s study. He’s seen the depictions of himself on paper in pencil – stacks of paper capturing moments in time, capturing how Hannibal sees him. Somehow, he doesn’t seem to ever experience Hannibal in the process of drawing. He seems to have difficulty catching Hannibal in process for a variety of things these days – the drawings, the meals, the new things that have started to collect in his home. And as much as he has loved waking up on the cusp of orgasm, he doesn’t want to miss all of the touch that comes with getting there.  
  
His hands jerk in a movement that interrupts the quiet and yank Hannibal back to kiss him again. He grabs at Hannibal with harsh squeezes of his fingers as he pulls him close, but still nothing is close enough. He whimpers and arches his back as much as he can. He wants Hannibal as a weight on top of him, pushing them down until they become engulfed in the nest and merged as one. In the safe and warm, they could grow as the pup grows safe and warm inside of him, protected from the harsh world outside with its cold and its claws.  
  
With hands far gentler than Will’s own, Hannibal urges him to his side. He follows Hannibal’s guidance and, as Hannibal lays across his back, Will whines, _so close_ to feeling appeased. The warmth is there. He can feel Hannibal’s breath and the scratch of the hair on his chest. He can also feel all the weight Hannibal keeps from pressing down on him. Will knows it’s what’s safest. But he still feels more exposed than he once was, showing his belly is more difficult to avoid now that there’s more to account for.  
  
Will moans as Hannibal sucks a bruise at his neck – right across the gland that lies there just under the skin. He whimpers at just the slightest edge of teeth – something intentional that’s newly allowed now that the line has been drawn differently and their trust has another tether. The part of Will that wants it _so badly_ arches his neck further against the press of teeth and brings a whine to his throat. When the whine comes stifled, wet, and pained, he tells himself that’s the _smart_ part of him.  
  
“Hold me,” Will demands, “As tight as you can.” He pulls Hannibal’s arm tighter around him to feel the bulge Hannibal’s bicep, the flex of his forearms, and grasp of his hand. Their fingers intertwine together against the base of the nest. They curl together and form a fist around a sweater. “Fuck me,” he moans when he can feel Hannibal’s cock hard and promising against the bare skin of his ass, “As hard as you can.”  
  
He whines in complaint as Hannibal pulls away. He shivers with the colder air that fills any gap between their bodies. When Hannibal slips in one finger and then another, Will knows from the slick slide that he’s more than ready. Will still feels so wet and open and oversensitive from how Hannibal worked him open and made him come once already this morning and the memory of his dream tingles at his skin. When Hannibal’s cock sinks in, it’s so much better than the vague recollections in his dream.  
  
Hannibal aligns his thigh with Will’s and tucks his knee up and forward to spread Will wider and, as he thrusts, Will feels pinned and heavy just as he’d wanted. To have Hannibal filling him, deep within him, over him, on top of him, he feels his lungs constrict in his chest. His chest feels full to burst and his vision goes fuzzy. His fingers tense and curl seemingly on their own. They feel crooked and twisted and he vaguely feels Hannibal work his fingers in between to urge them to relax. Hannibal’s touch unbends knuckles and straightens fingers that prickle with a lack of proper circulation.  
  
“Breathe,” Hannibal whispers against his damp skin. “You have to breathe, my love.”  
  
Will gasps a few breaths but they are shallow and rush out again as Hannibal fills him. “I can’t,” Will whines as he tips his cheek against the plush pillow. The fabric under his mouth grows damp.  
  
Hannibal’s scent makes his mouth water. Gone is the clinical cleanness, instead there is the crisp, freshness of sorbet. Will wants to drink him down. Though it would no doubt send a painful chill through his teeth, he longs to bite. He knows when Hannibal’s teeth feel too much temptation. He knows it in how Hannibal buries his face into Will’s hair instead. Hannibal’s panting breaths are humid puffs and he has no doubt that Hannibal is as drunk off his scent as he is on Hannibal’s.  
  
Hannibal’s hand splays wide over Will’s chest – across his sternum over his heart. “Breathe into my hand,” Hannibal says. It’s a rasping sound muffled in Will’s hair, but he obeys. He feels the air fill him and open him wider – from his chest, down into his belly, and deep into the space between his hips. As he breaths out, he opens himself further and welcomes the heavy press of a knot. “Good,” Hannibal praises, “Steady, my dear.”  
  
Hannibal taunts him with the prospect of the knot – the promise of being locked together and inseparable. Will feels himself goaded and shoves his hips back with his own thrust to force the knot in. The sudden stretch makes him grit his teeth. The pleasure he feels burns with the sting of overstimulation but he embraces the pain. He feels his hole hold at the base of the knot and, though there’s no risk of Hannibal slipping free, he clenches to keep it in. He grounds himself in the heft of it as Hannibal’s cock twitches and spills.  
  
“ _Good_ ,” Will moans. He feels the thud of his heart against Hannibal’s palm and spreads his hand against the back of Hannibal’s to interlace their fingers once more.  
  
They lay together in temporary stillness interrupted only by the gasps of their breaths and pound of their hearts in their ears, everything else in the world kept out of sight and out of mind. Even the pup stays quiet and likely will remain this way for another half an hour or so. Will’s eyes slip closed. He just woke up, but he feels ready for sleep again. A lazy smile crosses his lips as he thinks that maybe they should practice taking a nap while the pup does.  
  
“I love you,” Will whispers and learns what it feels like when Hannibal presses that self-satisfied, reverent smile against his throat.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
As he walks to class on the following Monday morning, Will finds himself thinking that spending the weekend indulging in the warmth of the nest and sharing body heat with his partner might make the weekday chill sting harder. He doesn’t feel cold, not really, not with all of his layers and the extra blood pumping in his veins, but he still feels the chafe of it against his cheeks as winter still clings to the air.  
  
Will’s skills at pretending are maybe getting _over_ extended. It’s gotten to the point that he feels almost like two different people. His sweatshirts acts as his tenuous disguise. He disappears within it and becomes someone very nearly the same as the peers that crowd around him on the sidewalk. He conceals and blends in to hide himself among the masses, dressed too in their bulky winter coats. He hunches his shoulders and shoves his hands in his coat pockets like they do and, with his hands in his pockets, the roundness at his front is transformed into just another lump of fabric.  
  
As hard as he might try to look the same, he still knows he never will be. The shirt under his sweatshirt had been baggy a few weeks ago, but now clings tightly. Will can feel it shift and ride up when he walks and creep even higher has to use the stairs. As he takes his seat next to Beverly, he uses well-practiced subtle movements to readjust it back in place. He suppresses a sigh. By the time he gets home, a larger size will likely have materialized in the dresser drawer, properly folded.  
  
“Good morning, Will,” Beverly greets with a smile. She smells like coffee and he nearly drools with envy – what he wouldn’t give for some caffeine.  
  
“Good morning,” he yawns, rubbing at his tired eyes.  
  
The class starts when Dr. Crawford dips the lights low and turns on the projector to show the second half of a movie they started the previous class. Will crosses his arms on the desk surface, leans his chin on one hand, and stares rather blankly as the film flickers on the screen. The film is pretty dull, Will thinks. With each uninteresting tidbit of FBI history and procedure, his eyelids feel heavier and the fog in his brain creeps further in. Not even the bits and pieces they include about actual forensic psychology can keep his attention. He doesn’t even realize he’s asleep until his head jerks up on reflex.   
  
His neck has another startled jerk as he feels a finger poke harshly at his shoulder. Opening and closing his eyes feels almost like too much effort and energy, but he forces himself to give a couple lazy blinks in Beverly’s direction. She tips a travel mug towards him and whispers low and quiet, “Do you want some?”  
  
He stifles another yawn and conceals it as a deep breath, almost a sigh. “No, thank you,” he says and hopes the regret doesn’t show up too much in his tone.  
  
“You’re falling asleep,” she hisses at him. This time she knocks the travel mug against his arm and he can tell it’s no longer a question.  
  
He figures one sip won’t hurt them. The mug is heavy when he takes it, still more than half-full. He takes one long swig and though it tastes distinctly like cheap, burnt cafeteria coffee, he regrets having to give it up again.   
  
“Sorry,” he says as he hands the coffee back to her. He gives as much of a smile as he can manage and awkwardly pats her hand. “I’m okay.”  
  
The coffee has little effect on him but seems to wake the pup right up, which doesn’t help with the fatigue, but he supposes it _does_ keep him awake. As he stares again at the projected images and listens to the monotone narration, he tries to put the bits and pieces he remembers from the movie into some sort of order. He fails miserably. There’s something there about religious motivations and the history of false claims of satanic rituals that he remembers seeing in a reading, but the rest is a blur.  
  
The lights flick on as the credits roll and every student in the room groans at the shock of harsh florescent lighting. Dr. Crawford doesn’t flinch and doesn’t wait for his students to recover. Will knows that he sees the students wincing as he scans his eyes across a crowd, but he doesn’t wait.  
  
“What was his motive?” Dr. Crawford asks. The ones who recover quickest are the ones most desperate to impress and a few hands quickly raise in the crowd. “Will,” Dr. Crawford calls out, as if the choice was random – as if Will even had his hand raised.  
  
“I don’t know,” Will sighs as he rubs at his eyes and feels the grit in the corner.  
  
“How is he choosing them?” Dr. Crawford asks, once again directed only at him despite many hands raised and waving slightly for attention. When Will scans his eyes across the crowd of his peers, he sees Freddie glaring as she raises her hand with such poise and confident grace. She still has her little leather gloves on.  
  
“I don’t know,” Will quips. He gestures towards a Beta in the front row who reeks of the desperate need to prove himself and the worry that he is failing. “Ask him.”  
  
Dr. Crawford frowns. He doesn’t even look in the poor Beta’s direction and the student’s raised hand falls away in a poor attempt to seem casual. “I’m asking you,” Dr. Crawford insists.  
  
Will can feel the frustration rearing, raising up on hind legs and ready to lash out. Every class has seemed to go this way. Three times per week he is questioned and tested on his recall, his comprehension, and his insight. Far too many times he has left class feeling like he spent half of it reciting the reading and the other half explaining to his peers what it meant. The only reprieve he has been on the days when it was Miriam’s turn to try her hand at instructing. Thankfully, she doesn’t follow her mentor’s example.  
  
“You’re the head of the Behavioral Science department, _Dr. Crawford_ ,” Will snaps. “Why don’t you come up with your own answers if you don’t like mine?”  
  
“I did not hear that,” Dr. Crawford demands. His voice booms and echoes in the lecture hall, filling up every nook and cranny. “Did I?”  
  
Once Dr. Crawford’s voice no longer seems to ricochet from the walls or shake at the floor beneath their feet, there is only the sound of shocked gasps from his peers. Those who don’t gasp show their shock in other ways: wide-eyed staring, more glares, more frowns. Freddie now looks at him with an air of superiority and _smugness_. She seems pleased at the assumption that this could amount to his fall from grace. Though he is hidden behind the desk, he feels the attention as a heavy weight in his stomach.  
  
“No, you didn’t,” Will concedes as he ducks his head. His skin is dewy with sweat from worry. “Sorry,” he apologizes, though his tongue feels clumsy as he says it.  
  
“I didn’t think so,” Dr. Crawford says, but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t relent in the ruthless application of his attention.   
  
“Could he be a vigilante?” Beverly asks. Will holds in a sigh of relief when all eyes slide over to her instead. She acts like she doesn’t notice and no doubt does a better job of it than he’s ever done. She keeps her voice so calm and curious as she continues. “He thinks he’s doing God’s work by making angels out of demons.”  
  
Dr. Crawford grunts at her interjection and his eyes look between the two Omegas under his domain. When he doesn’t argue, Will wonders if he’s realized he should at least be pretending to share his attention more equally between the both of them. Dr. Crawford gives Will another critical look but says to Beverly, “He’s too disorganized to be a vigilante.”  
  
Beverly shrugs at having the wrong answer. When Dr. Crawford turns his back, she gives Will a wink and he tries to smile.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The house is dark and silent in the way that can only be associated with the late hours when one day turns into the next. Hannibal turns off the lights behind him as he walks from his study and down the hallway. With the click of one last light switch, there is only the sliver of light that peeks out from under the closed bedroom door. It’s the faint, yellowy light of the lamp beside the nest – a beacon that has become more and more familiar, seeming to pull him ashore from a long day out at sea.  
  
He quietly tilts open the door with the tip of his fingers. It’s more than likely that Will fell asleep to his reading as he has done many times before. While sitting at his desk, Hannibal has been distracted far too often by thoughts of Will’s eyes slipping closed and his head lolling over a book in their nest. The thought fills him with warmth regardless of whether the fireplace is lit. Without Will at the desk opposite him, he rarely gets to enjoy Will’s frantic notetaking when he encounters something new or the look of realization in his eyes. The desk now sits empty most days with Will’s back so unwilling to compromise and his nesting instinct so keyed up.  
  
Unfortunately for Hannibal, he’s quite the opposite: he gets his work done most efficiently in his office when lounging in the nest with Will is rife with possible distractions. Hannibal’s affection for Will’s mind leaves him wanting to witness every new piece of information learned and stored away. Meanwhile, Will is biologically primed to pull Hannibal in and encourage him to keep guard at all times.  
  
Rather than asleep, Will is ensconced in a pile of pillows in their nest, a textbook open and leaning against the upper curve of his belly as if nature designed the perfect bookrest. Deep into his reading, Will doesn’t seem to notice him. He doesn’t look up as Hannibal strips away the last of his daytime clothing. Hannibal looks over at Will as he slides his legs into a pair of pajama pants and watches his eyes scan the pages. Will seems to be reading a little slower than Hannibal knows he can do, but he still seems starved for the knowledge held within.  
  
The wall of the nest seems thicker, sturdier, and taller than it was just the night before. Will must have another couple of Hannibal’s sweaters tucked in there somewhere and maybe a couple blankets intended for the pup, It is typical to give pups blankets that smell of the scents of dam and sire shortly after they are born. Those blankets can be the only things that appease a pup’s need to be held close.  
  
He cups the back of Will’s head as he settles at his side. He cradles the sturdy skull that holds Will’s wonderful, peculiar mind as he leans down to kiss at Will’s hair. He slides another hand to brush back Will’s bangs and kisses there too. As he pulls away, he can see the shadows under Will’s eyes and the hazy laxness of his smile “I didn’t expect you to still be awake,” Hannibal remarks.   
  
Will nuzzles into Hannibal’s hold as he covers his yawn with the back of his hand. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says after the yawn has faded. “Figured I’d get some reading done.”  
  
Will takes hold of Hannibal’s wrist and their hands fall together as Will guides his touch back where it so often lands. He strokes and feels that Will’s belly is fuller and rounder than last he checked — the last Will had him check, though he doubts Will actively thinks of it as _checking_.  
  
“Was the pup refusing to settle?” he asks as he feels some twisting and turning against his palm. He taps lightly with a couple of his fingers, though he’s not sure if that would be considered encouraging bad behavior.  
  
Will gives a small, quiet laugh. “No, they’ve actually been pretty quiet, all things considered.”  
  
Hannibal tsks his tongue anyway and gives Will another kiss to his forehead. “What’s keeping you from sleeping?”  
  
Will sighs and, even in the warm light, he turns a bit gray. Will closes his textbook with a heavy thump. The words _Human Development_ stand out against the cover alongside the image of a collection of adults and children. “You’re going to get a visit from Dr. Crawford,” Will tells him.  
  
Hannibal hums. “I assume something happened to prompt the visit.”  
  
“I talked back in class,” Will murmurs as he stares down at the faces that smile up at him from the book cover.   
  
Hannibal hums once again. He finds himself dreading the future in ways he never has before. For most of his life, he’s viewed the progression of time with a sense of detachment. He gave up long ago on the idea that he could know what would happen in life and death. Curiosity certainly feels better than fear. He will walk this winding path with Will wherever it may take them and do it gladly. That hasn’t changed.  
  
However, rather than watch time pass, he now wishes he could break the confines of time and stretch it. He longs to make the next few months last at least twice as long so that he might savor them as they should be – savor them as he has savored the rarity of Will’s optimism. He wishes he could erase any expiration date and keep such a delicacy from ever spoiling.  
  
“I will take care of it,” Hannibal reassures.  
  
The sound Will makes is just shy of a purr. “Thank you, Hannibal,” Will says as he leans more heavily against Hannibal and leans his head against his shoulder.  
  
Will looks at the bassinet in the corner of the room. It matches the crib in the nursery down the hall. Hannibal bought and assembled the crib and presented it to Will after dinner. Will had just seemed confused that they would have such a thing so early. In fairness, even after the pup is born, it is likely they will want the pup as close as possible and a nursery just down the hall will feel eons away.  
  
Each addition to their pup supplies seems to come as a version of a surprise to Will. Not quite a gift and not quite expected, Will welcomes each new addition with as much grace as he can. Hannibal could see in his eyes an uncertainty about affording to plan far so beyond the birth and to a day when they could feel so settled as to allow their pup to be out of their sight. As Will dragged his fingers along the gloss of the wood, Hannibal can feel the discomfort in receiving things that must seem to Will as lavish. When he pets along the bedding, Hannibal knows Will’s resignation – with no job and certainly no savings, this would be the only way.  
  
Will sighs as he shifts fruitlessly in his seat. Hannibal knows Will has difficulty getting his bearings. A nest is perfect for its soft and homey nature, but offers little help for Will to gain leverage as he moves. Hannibal offers Will his arm as an anchor and guides him with steady hands until Will sits between his legs.  
  
Will leans back against his chest, tips his head, and presses his nose against the side of Hannibal’s throat. “What do you think you’ll be like as a father?” Will whispers.  
  
“I expect I’ll be firm, but affectionate,” Hannibal muses as he slides his hands to cradle the curve at the underside of Will’s belly and feels the weight of it. Will smells like the way air grows warm and sticky right before a thunderstorm and flowers that may either bloom or wash away in the rain. “I’ll scold them but they’ll get away with more than they’re punished for.”  
  
Will sighs as he places his hands on top of Hannibal’s. “Would you keep yourself distant from the pup?”  
  
Hannibal hums. “We have a deep-seated need to interact with our children,” he observes. “It helps us discover who we are.”  
  
Will’s hold on his hands has the just the hint of claws, protective and punishing. “That doesn’t answer my question,” he demands.  
  
“Children transport us to our childhoods,” Hannibal starts. He shivers as Will nips lightly right under his ear in warning – he won’t be denied the answer to his question twice. “There lies a castle in Lithuania I’ll never visit. It once held safety and security behind its walls and iron gate. That is in the distant past.” Hannibal pauses and earns himself a light kiss where he’d been nipped. “My role is my castle now,” he continues. “And in it the pup will know the safety and security that has long been locked away.”  
  
Will nods and the teeth and claws alike recede. Hannibal can’t help himself but smile at a dam coming so naturally and beautifully into his protective instincts.  
  
“What sort of mother will you be?” Hannibal asks.  
  
Will sinks deeper and heavier into his arms. “I always imagined that I’d be good at being a parent,” Will says. His voice sounds wet. “Though, in that imagination I have a house, some dogs, a job. I teach them to fish. I keep the table where I make my lures out of reach from little pudgy, sticky hands.” Will sighs and pets a hand across his belly from the top near his sternum down to where the curve juts out the furthest. “I have a hard time imagining this,” he confesses quietly. “I don’t know how to merge imagination and reality.”  
  
Hannibal kisses at his hair. “I imagine you as the one who slips them a cookie after dinner. I imagine coming home to a wet dog leaving paw prints on the floor and discovering that the two of you found the lonely stray and brought him home for a bath,” he says. A smile pulls at his lips as he imagines the smile on Will’s face mirrored in a smaller, chubby-cheeked version of him and how their eyes would shine as a dog shakes and sprays drops of water across the kitchen floor. “I imagine I can’t be too angry about a dam spoiling his pup.”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Will sighs.   
  
“We have the opportunity to craft a universe around this child,” Hannibal reassures him. “A flex of creative power that fashions reality from stories in textbooks that have been until now like make-believe.”  
  
“There will come a time when we won’t be able to play fill in the blank anymore,” Will says. It is either a warning or a worry, maybe both. “There will be less space for elegance – for things unsaid and cleverness filling the gaps.”  
  
“Elegance can be found in the free form dance of parenthood,” Hannibal tells him. “It can be a gradual process. It does not have to happen all at once. We have time yet.”  
  
The line Will traces across his belly wobbles. “Not that much time.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The wooden chairs outside Dr. Crawford’s office are uncomfortable. The shape isn’t doing Will’s back any favors and the padding might as well not exist. Will has been sitting _for hours_ outside Dr. Crawford’s office with textbook in hand – the textbook for Dr. Crawford’s class, of course. It might be pandering and lacking in elegance, but Dr. Crawford is the type to like being told what he wants to hear and would rather not have to hear about boring things like nuance.  
  
Will has turned page after page as the minutes turn into hours. Students pass him by in swarms like bees when classes end and then in trails like ants after another class starts. He can feel the stinging intensity when some of them stare, but most pay him little attention. He’s several weeks ahead in the reading and his shoulders hurt from being hunched when a voice interrupts his concentration.   
  
“Will Graham?”  
  
Miriam Lass stands just close enough to keep clear of the latest rush of students and keeps far enough away to maintain the proper distance. Miriam is quiet in a way that would seem meek, but the way she says her words has always spoken of a sort of confidence. She is formal and professional and seems to only say what needs to be said.  
  
“Dr. Crawford doesn’t have office hours today,” she reminds him.  
  
“I know,” Will says, and he does. He knows it like he knows he shouldn’t delay his apology. Will doesn’t need Dr. Crawford mulling over their spat any longer than necessary. The sooner it is resolved, the less reason Dr. Crawford will have to think about it, and everything can be laid to rest before it’s truly risen. “I hoped I might be able to catch him anyway.”  
  
“He might be at Quantico today,” Miriam tells him. “He hasn’t been answering emails.”  
  
“Still,” he says. “I’ll wait.”  
  
Her smile and her nod come across as stiff but she retrieves her phone from her bag and shows it to him as she says, “I’ll let him know you’re here. Just in case.”  
  
His nod and smile are stiff too. He can tell she’s more comfortable that way. Without another word, she types out the email on her phone. The typing itself is quick, but he can see her eyes flickering a few times over what she’s written to proofread and double-check. After she’s sent it with a last press of her thumb, she stashes her phone away again. She gives him one last tip of her head before she starts to turn back towards the office down the hallway that she shares with the other TA’s.  
  
“Miriam,” he says on impulse. “What was it like when you worked with Dr. Lecter?” As soon as he asks it, he doesn’t know why he did.  
  
Miriam wrinkles her forehead in consideration. “He’s brilliant, distinguished, demanding. I was told that the demands would pay off in the end,” she informs him. “I kept trying to figure out what he wanted until I felt like I couldn’t tell up from down.”  
  
“Dr. Crawford is demanding too,” he points out. Again, he doesn’t know why he bothers.  
  
“Dr. Lecter let me go like it was nothing,” she says as she rolls her shoulders and disrupts her perfect posture. “Dr. Crawford may be overbearing but at least he doesn’t give up.”  
  
Will doesn’t know if he believes her, but also knows a part of him wants to be able to count on her to be right. “He might give up on a lost cause,” he sighs.  
  
Miriam’s big, open eyes peer at him like an owl blinking in the dark. She studies him for one beat, maybe two. He can scent her interest and intrigue like the dull metallic of a well-worn key. She darts her eyes away from him and off to the side. “Hello, Dr. Crawford,” she says.   
  
When Will turns to look at him, Dr. Crawford seems to loom so large that it makes Will feel so small in his seat. The excessive fluorescent lighting hardly allows for much of a shadow, but Will feels it anyhow.  
  
“Good afternoon, Miriam,” Dr. Crawford greets with a polite smile and then looks down at him as he huffs, “Will.”  
  
“Will was hoping to meet with you,” Miriam says for him.  
  
Dr. Crawford hums as he takes off his hat. “Then I suppose you better come in,” he tells Will.  
  
Will nods and stuffs his book into his bag as he stands. He turns to thank Miriam, but with the words on the tip of his tongue, he finds she’s already walked away. He walks into Dr. Crawford’s office as the Alpha hangs up his coat. Will has his tucked over his messenger bag, which he holds in such a way that his belly might be partially covered and still look casual.  
  
“Don’t you have classes today?” Dr. Crawford questions as he takes his seat at his desk. He doesn’t ask Will to take a seat or offer it. “Aren’t you still in school?”  
  
When Dr. Crawford looks at him, Will shifts on his feet. He wishes he didn’t but his back and his shoulders hurt. “I thought this was more important.”  
  
Dr. Crawford laughs or maybe it’s more like he _scoffs_. “Did you now.”  
  
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says and tries not to cringe at how his voice wobbles a little. “I wasn’t feeling like myself.”  
  
Dr. Crawford gives him the feeling that he’s seeing everything Will wishes he wouldn’t. “Is there something you want to tell me?”  
  
“Uh, no, no,” Will insists as he grips harder at the strap of his bag and pulls it farther in front of him.  
  
Dr. Crawford frowns. “Well, clearly there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”  
  
Will ducks his head and rubs at the back of his aching neck with one hand. He starts to worry that he’s doing as much damage as he’s repairing. He’s had all this time to prepare but the words don’t come out exactly as he practiced. Some nights he’s laid awake thinking about excuses – _it’s just some gained weight, no need to worry_ and _I just ate something funny in the cafeteria._ “I guess I just haven’t been sleeping well recently, is all,” he says.  
  
“If there’s a problem, you need to tell me,” Dr. Crawford demands.  
  
Will nods his head tensely and looks at his shoes. Even with Miriam’s words in the back of his mind, the demand doesn’t feel like an indication that he won’t be left behind. It feels like the power and authority of a bullet as it's fired from a gun.  
  
“Is there a problem, Will?”  
  
At this point, Will knows he can only muddy the waters. “It’s fine,” he says as he blinks up at Dr. Crawford. “I just worried you’d think that I’m not taking the class seriously.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There is a click and a pop as Alana closes her laptop. Hannibal has spent the last few hours with her reviewing what she’s written for one of their articles and making edits to yet another chapter of her dissertation. He knows he’s been trying her patience and testing the limits of her positive regard for him as he’s pushed her to work faster and be done sooner. She’s been much more amenable to this pressure than Frederick, who has groaned and griped with every request for an update. Although Hannibal supposes he must be some degree of sympathetic to the fact that Frederick is displeased with being pushed for unknown and entirely selfish reasons.  
  
Hannibal hopes that the both of them will have their dissertations done by the time the pup is born. Hannibal knows at the very least he will be distracted and would prefer to have to make as few excuses as possible. The excuses he must make for now are tedious enough. As much as he caters to Will’s optimism, Hannibal also knows there’s a chance that he won’t be a professor come next semester. It would be better for his advisees to be finished with such a significant milestone before they face the disruption of having to find a new advisor.  
  
Alana hesitates after she’s gathered her belongings. With her computer tucked away in her bag, she stays seated and folds her hands on top of the desk. Hannibal pauses his own hands as they ready his things to go home and instead turns more directly towards her and braces himself for what’s to come.  
  
“There’s something on your mind,” he says for her.   
  
Alana frowns. The look she gives him is one of serious concern. “Freddie Lounds has been around asking about Will again,” she informs him. She says it like he’s been asking her to spy. The irony is that he would prefer the exact opposite.  
  
Hannibal tsks his tongue. “Miss Lounds has an unfortunate opinion on acceptable pastimes,” he observes.  
  
Alana’s frown only deepens. Her hands tense in her grip. “She thinks something’s going on with him.”  
  
Hannibal hums. “She has had a version of that impression for quite a while.”  
  
“She thinks it’s something bigger,” she insists.  
  
There is a distance to his emotions, Hannibal notices then. He knows there’s worry, but not because he feels it. The feelings have been locked away behind a glass wall. He can know they are there, but he won’t touch them. He anticipated such a reaction when Jack Crawford comes to call. He knew it would come and that he would use it to his advantage as is truly its design. That it should be Alana instead is still unexpected.   
  
“Freddie Lounds has thoroughly documented her tendency towards exaggeration,” he says with the proper distance in his tone.  
  
“She asked me if I knew if Will has a boyfriend,” she continues. “I didn’t tell her, but I think he does.”  
  
“Will’s personal life should only be the concern of Will and whoever he shares it with,” he instructs her, wanting to remind Alana to firmly view him as a professor first and foremost. That way his advice might appear to be professional courtesy rather than personal agenda.  
  
“What if his partner is abusive?” she counters. The look in her eyes shifts from softer concern to a sharper one. It’s no matter. Her frustration with his professionalism is preferable to the alternative. “He has bruises all the time and he’s only gotten quieter, _shiftier_.”  
  
He knows pride appears then on the other side of the glass. He knows it preens at the idea that his marks garnered attention. He can see that it comes accompanied by indignation that those marks would get interpreted as anything less than enthusiastic claiming. Even a Beta such as Alana should be able to recognize what it can look like when Alpha and Omega court. Although many Will’s age have distanced themselves from the courting rituals of the past, their instincts still find ways to stand the test of time.  
  
“There are additional reasons for such bruises and Will has never seemed forthcoming,” he reminds her. He can see how she prepares herself to argue as he speaks. “You’re making observations but jumping to conclusions. Identify your interpretations for what they are.”  
  
“Margot sees it too,” she still argues.   
  
Hannibal tilts his head and shifts his expression to something like the combination of curious and skeptical. “Is that what she said?”  
  
Alana drops her hands below the edge of the desk as she shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m worried he wouldn’t come to me if he needed to,” she admits. “I think we’re friends but it’s always hard to tell with him.”  
  
Hannibal nods. There might be something like relief. “You’re reticent to reach out yourself.”  
  
“I feel like if I try again I’d just risk annoying him,” she sighs. The number of emotions Hannibal has seen in her eyes in such a sort time is something remarkable – from hesitation to conspiracy and uncertainty to certainty and back again. He wonders what Will would make of such a cascade of emotions, though he would not be surprised if it prompted something like seasickness. “Would you check in on him?” she asks.  
  
“Would that be appropriate?” he asks her. If nothing else, this conversation has been a helpful litmus test. “I know my reputation. I would not want to seem unprofessional.”  
  
“Crossing boundaries is different than violating them,” she tells him as if it’s her job to give him such sage insight. It’s not the first time Hannibal has considered that Alana may think it’s her job to humanize him, though she may think of it in kinder terms. She looks him straight in the eye with conviction as she says, “Professional neutrality be damned.”  
  
Hannibal stands with the hope that she’ll mirror him. When she doesn’t budge, he suppresses a sigh. “I will consider it, Alana.”  
  
She smiles and finally moves to stand. “That’s all I ask.”  
  
As Alana finally takes her leave, Hannibal resumes readying himself to go home again. When he puts away his files in the proper place, it is partially for show. Alana closes the door softly behind her and once it clicks shut, he takes a deep breath. As he breathes out, he taps his fingers against his desk surface and feels the hardwood of it press back against his finger. He imagines a door opening where it’s hidden behind the glass walls.   
  
Hannibal dons his jacket thinking only of seeing the world beyond his office, although he will likely need to resume work at home. His keys jangle in his hand as he slips one arm and then another into the sleeves of his jacket. As he shrugs it onto his shoulders, he hopes he still has time to stop by the store to buy another round of pants at a larger size and tuck them away in the drawer for Will to find later. When Jack Crawford is the first thing he sees just outside his office door, Hannibal knows he may be lucky to make it home with enough time to prepare dinner.  
  
“Good afternoon, Jack,” he greets as he takes a step back into his office. The swing of his door shut behind Jack encloses him once more in the thick, punishing glass. It is as if he hardly has breathing room, just stagnant air and bland nothingness. “It seems I’m seeing you more and more these days.”  
  
Jack hums gruffly as he sits. “Yes, it does.”  
  
“Though our time together rarely seems to center on either of us,” Hannibal observes. It’s an easy truth even without Will’s warning – or Alana’s for that matter. “Which is it this time? Will or Bella?”  
  
“Will,” Jack confirms as he scowls. “He seems _off_. More than usual.”  
  
Hannibal makes a questioning, curious noise. “What sort of _off_?”  
  
“He’s argumentative,” Jack declares. Perhaps because they both know that wouldn’t be anywhere near sufficient where Will is concerned, Jack adds, “And apologetic.”  
  
Hannibal nods. An apology to a man like Jack might usually be an easy win, but combining his keen eye and Will’s generally unapologetic nature makes it a gamble. “What did he say when you asked him?”  
  
“That he’s tired.”  
  
Hannibal hums at what Will gave him to work with. It’s no matter. Hannibal will find a way to do what he must. “We are coming up on a stressful time in the semester.”  
  
“It seems like more than midterms and lack of sleep,” Jack argues with a frown.  
  
“I can’t imagine he would hide anything nefarious from you,” Hannibal reassures. It’s an easy reassurance to give and feel true. Although they may have a secret and it may break rules, there is nothing vile or wicked about it. “I’ve only ever known Will as someone striving to be his best self.”  
  
"It might not be nefarious, but he seems afraid,” Jack continues to argue. “I’ve seen students worried about exams, anxious about their grades, uncertain about their futures. But the fear is something else.”  
  
“It may not be fair to measure Will in comparisons to other students we’ve known when Will is not like other students,” he counters. “We can’t define Will only by what others would do.”  
  
“We can’t define Will at all,” Jack says with a laugh.   
  
“Is it possible that you fixate on fixing Will to distract yourself from being unable to fix your wife?” Hannibal asks to sow seeds of doubt. “That the fear you see in Will is the fear you see in Bella? Or the fear you feel in yourself?”  
  
Jack huffs a heavy breath before he admits, “It’s possible.”  
  
“Fixing Will won’t fix Bella, Jack,” Hannibal reminds him. “The frustration you feel may come from trying to fix something that isn’t broken.”  
  
Jack furrows his brows. “You really don’t think there is anything to fix?”  
  
“I am not in the business of fixing. I’m in the business of healing,” Hannibal explains. “In Will’s case, healing may not be synonymous with making him easier for you to understand.”  
  
Hannibal can feel how Jack’s eyes study him. Hannibal’s distance from his feelings allows him to remain still and hope that all Jack sees in the glass is his own reflection. Jack seems to have either found what he was looking for or _not_ found it; either way he says, “Tell me, Doctor. What is your professional advice?”  
  
“Extend Will the freedom to access support without first requiring him to provide you the comfort that neither your wife nor medicine is able to provide,” Hannibal replies.  
  
Jack sighs and nods his head. His shoulders, which usually sit wide and proud, slump in what passes for resignation with Jack Crawford. Jack doesn’t stay much longer and Hannibal doesn’t let himself sigh even after Jack leaves his office. He saves it until he’s safely in his own home. He only seems to finally shed his glass confines once he has Will curled back in his arms.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You work too hard,” Beverly groans from where she’s sitting across Will’s bed, drink halfway between her lap and her mouth.  
  
It’s her second drink of the night, but Bev pours them strong, which more or less invalidates the count. She’s still sitting on the bed though so he knows she’s not too far gone. Bev’s drunkenness is measured using system with two factors: proximity and perpendicularity relative to the ground. Standing: sober. Sitting on the bed: a little drunk. Laying on the bed: moderate. Laying on the floor: severe.  
  
He doesn’t dignify her comment with a response. Even if he is exhausted and does look particularly like shit today, they both know they have an equal tendency to work themselves to death. Besides, they also both know that the problem isn’t a sense of perfectionism or being a workaholic. The reason he’s dragging his feet is that he’d rather do work than what they have planned for the night.  
  
He let Bev know ahead of time that he won’t be drinking. His excuse is that he’s still in the “I’m never drinking again” phase after the events of last time. It helped sell the lie somewhat that his disgusted shiver had been genuine when he talked about still being able to feel the burn of vomit at the back of his throat.  
  
There’s no need to drive and they don’t have access to a car anyway, but he’s been deputized as Bev’s designated driver for the night nonetheless. Instead of steering a vehicle, he’s tasked with steering her away from all manner of questionable hookups. Beverly had said that she trusted his judgment and that he would be able to tell who was worth her time. He could complain about his skills being used for drunken matchmaking – or match-breaking? – but at the end of the day he knows it’s for the greater good.   
  
It doesn’t take long until Beverly is shutting his book for him and takes even less time for her to find her first prospect once they’ve reached the party. Will catches one whiff of acrid arrogance off the Alpha, whispers in Beverly’s ear, and just like that the suitor is sent away. After the third prospect leaves in disappointment, Beverly decides it’s time to dance. She tries to get him to join, but even if he for some reason wanted to, the pain in his back wouldn’t let him so he sits and waits off to the side.  
  
The pounding of the music, the overcrowding of bodies, the stickiness clinging to seemingly every surface, the flash of lights – they all overwhelm him. He’d given an extra splash or two of his cologne before they left and soaked the edge of his shirt collar enough to make Bev wrinkle her nose in disapproval, but the scents of various bodies, various emotions, desires, and motives render his preparation pointless. The many bodies in the room create a swampy humidity in the air that seeps hot and heavy through the layers of his clothes and clings to his skin.  
  
Nausea creeps at the back of his throat threateningly. He checks that Bev is still dancing and intermittently making out with a Beta woman – single, older, a sophomore or junior maybe, face flushed from alcohol but still self-aware – and he decides he isn’t needed for now. He takes his leave outside and the chill in the air soothes the sick sweat that crept to his skin – though the sudden shift in temperature also sends a shudder through his frame.   
  
His pocket buzzes with the vibration of a text: _Are you behaving yourself?  
  
_Texting had become nearly common practice between them in the weeks they spent apart when Will was in Louisiana. At first, it was hard to imagine his professor doing something as modern and unsophisticated as texting beyond the short, informative text exchanges they’d had when he let his professor know whether he would be around for dinner.  
  
For the first week away, his skepticism kept him from texting anything beyond his confirmation that he’d arrived safe and sound. When the second week started with the overlap of a fishing trip and opera benefit that would prevent their usual phone call, Will sent him a picture of his catch and got a handsome picture of his Hannibal in a tuxedo with a glass of champagne, which initiated a flurry of texts Will should have been embarrassed to send in what was essentially his childhood home.  
  
Will smirks to himself as he types and sends: **I was but you’re making me wish I wasn’t.  
**_  
_ Will can imagine that he’s earned himself a bit of smirk in return and can envision Hannibal sitting in his dimly lit office still, refusing to go home as always, typing out another text on his tablet: _Should I come to get you?  
  
_**I’d like to see that: the great Dr. Lecter in all his glory showing up to a college party.  
It’d be like the cops showed up.  
**_  
Would they have reason to?  
_  
**I’d ask if you’ve ever had fun, but I know the answer to that question.**  
**I have proof even.  
**  
He slides his hand along his hip and slips careful fingers just under the bottom edge of his sweater. He smiles to himself as he awaits whatever response Hannibal has in store for him and wonders if he can rile Hannibal up enough to motivate him to come by. He is curious what it really would look like when his partner in his pristine bespoke suit and perfectly styled hair stands amongst the crushed plastic cups that litter the front lawn. He suspects Hannibal would find it distasteful and enjoys the idea of seeing him grumpy and ruffled.  
  
Will doesn’t have alcohol in his system like Bev but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel frisky too.  
  
“Such a rare thing to see you smile.”  
  
Will’s hand falls away quickly as he looks up. Frederick is dressed down without his usual suit, but wears his smirk as a permanent fixture.  
  
“Hello, Frederick,” he greets, but with how distractedly he says it, it probably barely qualifies as a greeting.  
  
Fredrick does a bad job hiding how much it bothers him as his smirk turns in the direction of a sneer. His eyes scan critically around them and he glares as if accusing the shadows. “Were you expecting someone else?”  
  
Will turns his phone over in his hand once before he tucks it away in his pocket. “Hoping for someone else.”  
  
Frederick groans dramatically and rolls his eyes. “You make me feel like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle.”  
  
Will laughs, short and sarcastic. “I think it’s _you_ that makes you feel like that.”  
  
“You save your sophistication for Dr. Lecter,” Frederick accuses. His tone is as bitter as his scent.  
  
Will wrinkles his nose and ducks his head to catch a whiff of cologne. “Do you want _me_ to like you or do you just want _someone_ to like you more than they like him?”  
  
“There’s opportunity here,” Frederick replies as he steps close enough to touch.  
  
“There’s no opportunity here, Frederick,” Will says as he takes a step back. “Not for you.”  
  
“The optimist believes we live in the best of all possible worlds, the pessimist fears this is true,” Frederick tells him, pausing for effect. “This is your best possible world, Will. You’re not getting a better one. Whatever fantasy you have of Dr. Lecter won’t come true.”  
  
Will doesn’t get the chance to say anything before a weight slams harshly against his back and arms wrap around his shoulders from behind. His breath catches in his throat. He has to force his arms back against his sides when they flinch forward instinctively. His heart pounds in his chest with the same impulse to protect or conceal.  
  
“Will!” Beverly shouts into his ear, carefree and with a tongue that’s clumsy with drunkenness. “I found you!”  
  
Will sighs in partial relief. “So you did,” he says as he pats at the arm that’s nearly around his throat.  
  
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” she yells again, just as loud. Her breath and hair reek of alcohol and sweat and the cloud of pheromones that comes from a room of bodies dancing and rubbing against each other with abandon. “Where did you go?” she complains.  
  
“Just needed some air,” he says as he untangles himself carefully from her hold. She stumbles without him to hold onto. The smile on her face has gone lopsided and the look in her eyes has gone hazy. “I think it’s time to go home.”  
  
Beverly sighs in disappointment but nods her head clumsily, lolling so heavily back and forth that it makes Will feel dizzy. She’s given him enough of an excuse to pay no further attention to Frederick, so Will merely looks at him and looks away again as a dismissive goodbye. Will takes hold of Beverly’s hand to steady her and so she won’t wander off as he guides her back to the house. They locate her jacket in a pile by the door, double-check that she still has all of her belongings, and set off for home before anyone can try to drag them back in and convince them otherwise.  
  
Beverly’s hold on Will’s hand slides up to curl around his elbow as she leans her body against his side and her head against his shoulder. Will flinched when she moved, but he has to remind himself that there’s no need to worry when her attention to detail has been so blurred. He relaxes into her as they curl towards each other against the cold. Their breaths turn into fog in the air and combine together in one cloud as they float away. Will has to inhale and exhale slowly and carefully to keep the bite of cheap liquor from making him retch.  
  
“You’re my best friend, Will,” Beverly mumbles as she rubs her cheek against his shoulder.  
  
“I know, Bev,” he reassures. He can scent her sadness like the salt of tears threatening to spill.  
  
“You’re different. You’ve always been a little different,” she says. When she pauses Will can almost feel her brain whirring. “Brilliant strategy,” she announces once something has come online. “That way no one ever knows what’s up with you.”  
  
Will hums.  
  
“You’re the subject of a lot of—” Beverly pauses again and gives a threatening swallow. She slurs particularly hard on the _S_ ’s as she says, “ _Speculation_ , the subject of _speculation_.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” he says as he raises his eyebrow. “What is this speculation?”  
  
“Dr. Crawford keeps asking me how you’re doing,” she confesses with a sigh. She presses her cheek harder against his shoulder and her voice takes on a sort of pouting tone. “I keep telling him that you’re doing fine and hoping it’s true.”  
  
Will pats at her hand. “I _am_ doing fine.”  
  
“You’re my best friend,” she whines. “Would you tell me if something was wrong if I asked?”  
  
Will sighs and then uses the kind of placating tone practically designed for overly emotional drunk people as he says, “Let’s talk about this tomorrow when you’ll remember it.”  
  
“Fine,” Beverly huffs and then seems to stare at their feet.  
  
Beverly keeps quiet as they return to his dorm room, seemingly swimming deeply in whatever thoughts spin in her head. Taking care of her offers a distraction from his own thoughts. He takes her jacket, helps her strip out of her outrageously tight pants, and guides her to the floor with as much grace as her level of coordination will allow. He knows that a good friend would give her the bed, but he doesn’t think his back or his pup would allow it. He’s needed all the padding in the nest to achieve even a semblance of comfort in sleep and the floor offers none.  
  
As he lies in bed, he realizes there is no hope for comfort or sleep regardless. He lies flat on his back on a thin, cheap mattress and stares at the ceiling. He listens to Beverly’s snores, heavy and noisy. Beverly sleeps deep and hard when she’s drunk. So long as she stays asleep and doesn’t get sick, he will have a long while for his thoughts to catch up with him.  
  
He tries to push away worries about Beverly’s questions and her reaction and he tries to tell himself that there’s no use ruminating. He reminds himself there’s likely no option to think his way out of her reaction. Even if there might be a way to confess everything to her perfectly, there’s no way to entirely control for her reaction. None of those reminders seem to matter. The nervousness comes back to grip at his chest every time.  
  
A buzz against his thigh pulls his attention and he fishes his phone out of his pocket. He notices that there is actually a series of texts waiting for him.  
  
The first clearly arrived quickly after Will’s last and reads: _It is a burden of proof that you carry well, my love. As always.  
_  
A second and third, which were likely delivered during their walk home and just now, respectively, read: _Will?_ and _Are you okay?  
_  
Will’s hands shake as he texts back: **Sorry. I’m fine. I had to take Beverly home. I’m staying with her for the night to make sure she doesn’t die.  
**  
_You’re a good friend_ , Hannibal texts back and it makes Will want to cry.  
  
Will winces as he curls in as tightly as he can on his side. He doesn’t feel like a good friend. Or, at least, he doesn’t think being a good friend should feel like this. A good friend wouldn’t feel afraid of his best friend wanting the truth. A good friend wouldn’t feel guilty for not telling her sooner.  
  
He clutches his phone to his chest as he closes his eyes and burrows his nose under the neck of his sweatshirt where it smells of cologne, laundry detergent, and ever so slightly of Hannibal. He takes deep breaths of the combination of scents and tries to imagine it working its way into his chest and filling his lungs. He feels in the shift of his shoulders and the easing of the ache in his chest that it’s working. He’s learning that this is what home is meant to do. Some sense of comfort loosens the grip at his pounding heart.  
  
He’s managed to drift to sleep before the next text comes through. He doesn’t see it but it reads: _Sleep well._  
  
  
\---  
  
  
_He’s surrounded by pitch black. There is only the slightest hint of moonlight. It’s just enough to create blurred shapes. He can barely make out the details beyond the bed and the window. Even with only the faintest details, he knows that this is what belongs to him.  
  
A crash comes from the window and a huge monster emerges in a cascade of glass. The shards sparkle and shine as they shower down around Beverly. She’s still asleep on the floor just where he’d left her. When the monster lands on the floor, it is on all fours with great huge paws. A wolf of some kind – real enough to strike terror through him but vague enough to defy understanding. It looms large over Beverly. She still won’t wake up. Will doesn’t want her to. He doesn’t want her to die. He has to protect her and watch over her.  
  
There are so few belongings in the room and no weapons of any sort, just all-encompassing darkness and danger. Still, he looks frantically. He searches with fumbling hands across shadowy surfaces and into drawers he can’t truly see. The wolf growls as Will checks every option and still finds nothing. The fear builds as he grows more and more desperate. He thinks over and over that he just has to look a little longer. He forgets if he already checked a drawer but checks it twice to be sure. His hands are still empty. He still has nothing and the wolf is still growling.  
  
He reaches inside himself, deep into a recess of his mind, and grasps with open anxiousness for something to hold onto – something to arm him, something to protect him. He grasps and grasps and comes out emptyhanded. He has no weapon but his bare hands and no way to fight. He can’t lunge or tackle with a pup in his belly. Seeming to know his hesitation, the wolf lunges. All Will can do as he falls back is hope he will never hit the ground.  
_  
  
\---  
  
  
The pup’s kicks serve as something of a malfunctioning alarm clock, waking him up as the sun peaks through the window shades. Sitting up in bed is an achy, clumsy feat. His center of gravity is off, his range of motion is limited, and his muscles would rather not cooperate. Once upright, Will rotates his shoulders, stretches his back, and rolls his neck to work through some of the pain. He couldn’t say he accomplishes much. He’ll probably have to wait until Hannibal can massage it away with firm presses of his fingers that hurt before they help.  
  
The aches throb as he makes the trip to the dining hall to get Beverly her hangover food, but the pup’s kicks at least quiet along the way. By the time he’s piling eggs, bacon, and pancakes into two containers and grabs Beverly a coffee, the pup seems to have curled up and tucked themselves back to sleep. Beverly is awake when he returns. She sits cross-legged on the floor with her head in her hands and her hair falling down around her face. She still reeks of cheap alcohol and sweat. He’s just glad the smell of vomit isn’t there too.   
  
“I brought coffee,” he tells her.  
  
Beverly groans, holds out one hand, and waves it impatiently. She groans again when he puts the cup in her hands. Her hair falls away as she tips her head up to drink it. Looking at the bags under her eyes and the slight gray of her skin, he finds it very, very easy to empathize. He drinks his own tea in silence as he watches her take sip after sip. By the time Beverly lowers the cup from her mouth again, it must be half empty.  
  
“It’s tomorrow and I remember,” she announces. Her voice is thick and rough.   
  
“What do you remember?” he asks as he picks up her food and sets it next to her knee.   
  
“Don’t fuck with me,” she snaps. She rubs at her temple and takes another swig from her coffee. “I want an answer. If there was something wrong, would you tell me?”  
  
Will sighs. He holds his own food in his hand but doesn’t open it. He suddenly feels he’s lost his appetite. “Nothing’s wrong, Bev.”  
  
“You’re _different_ ,” she argues as she snatches her container of food from the floor. “A different kind of _different_ than the usual kind.”  
  
“There’s nothing _wrong_ ,” Will insists. “There’s something _complicated_.”  
  
Beverly groans as she stabs her fork into her pancakes and leaves it standing upright. “Do I seriously _still_ have to convince you to trust me?”  
  
“It’s not about trusting you,” he reassures her. “I just wanted it to be our thing for a while – his and mine.”  
  
“You’re going to bond with him?” she guesses. Her eyes fall to scan around his neck. “Maybe you already have. You and your fucking cologne and collared shirts. Can’t let anyone know what’s going on.”  
  
“No, not bonding. Still maybe not ever. It’s um—” Will hesitates with the words. Other than telling his dad, he hasn’t had much practice telling anyone. Honestly, he’s spent more time reciting to himself all the excuses and denial since he found his tongue tripping up on his lie to Dr. Crawford.   
  
Instead of trying to find words that won’t feel quite so clumsy and awkward on his tongue, he sets aside his food and reaches his hand to take hold of the band at the bottom of his sweatshirt. He pulls back his sweatshirt up and above the rise of his belly. A shirt still offers him some cover, but without the shapelessness of his sweatshirt, the tight stretch of fabric against the round curve shows loud and clear that this isn’t a simple case of a first-year student indulging and gaining some weight.   
  
“ _Will_ ,” Beverly whispers harshly. “That’s _worse_ than bonding.”  
  
“Not _worse_ ,” Will says as he flinches. He squeezes his eyes closed as he ducks his head and pulls his sweatshirt down again. “ _Different_ ,” he reminds her through clenched teeth.  
  
“You’re against bonding but having a _fucking pup_ is okay?” Beverly scoffs and then flinches too as the action seems to make her head hurt. She groans as she puts her food on the floor again and knocks her fist lightly against the center of her forehead. “We were supposed to see this through together.”  
  
“We will,” he says. He tries to reach for her hand to reassure her but she pulls it away.   
  
“This changes things,” she says with a shake of her head. “You’ll have to take time off. You could get kicked out of the program. You might have to drop out of school!”  
  
Will huffs a breath and stares at his hands as he clenches and unclenches them. “This is why I don’t talk about it.”  
  
“You don’t have a choice,” she insists. Although she quite doesn’t yell, her words are sharp and pointed. They stab right between the ribs. “We’re taking _Dr. Crawford’s_ class. You don’t think eventually he’ll notice you’re _pregnant?_ ”  
  
“I have a plan and Hannibal agreed to it,” Will says plainly. “It’s been working so far.”  
  
“Aren’t you and him supposed to be so _fucking smart_?” she demands. “Ever since you’ve been with him, you’ve gotten more and more cryptic and pedantic. You’re both _idiots_ if you think you can actually get away with this. You’re not hiding it as well as you think you are.”  
  
As Will grits his teeth, he tastes blood. “You’re my best friend and didn’t know until just now,” he mutters.  
  
“That’s cruel and you know it,” she says and she _scoffs_. “Maybe you got that from him too.”  
  
Will doesn’t move as she staggers to her feet. He doesn’t lend a hand as she wobbles. He stares at the carpet as she pats her pockets and snatches her phone from where he left it on his desk. The slam of the door behind her is loud but he doesn’t flinch.  
  
In the silence of his room, he has no desire to eat the abandoned cafeteria food. With no company to share it with, he just wants to go home to Hannibal. However, a glance at his phone tells him the time and he knows Hannibal intended to go to his office today. Will could still visit him there, but it might be just as unsatisfying to see Hannibal and not be able to really _be_ with him as it would be to not see him at all. Will considers that maybe it’s for the best. What he imagines saying to Hannibal feels juvenile: _“I got into an argument with my best friend.”_  
  
He throws the food away in the trash and turns back to the textbook and notepad he left abandoned the night before. He runs his fingers over the edge of the hardcover. Worn out from many openings and closings, the well-worn binding makes no sound as he turns to the next chapter and starts his reading.  
  
His thoughts drift to Beverly and time again. His eyes continue to scan the page as he thinks of her anger and his eyes hit the end of the last paragraph by the time he realizes his distraction. He simply closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he opens them, starts the page over. He ignores the spot where a tear marked the page and he ignores the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
**_For Business or Pleasure?  
_**_  
It is not uncommon to see Will Graham, a first-year student, with a psychology book in hand, but recent developments may suggest that this not a simple case of a disciplined student. You will recall the infamy Will Graham has accumulated in his short time on campus. Campus Tattle has previously reported on Graham and his supposed sense of smell. Previous articles have conclusively established that “gift” as an example of fraudulent manipulation. (Click[here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833705/chapters/57272236) to review the evidence yourself.)  
  
It seems that Will Graham may be trying to conceal another truth and, in the process, engage further in fraud. It would seem that Graham’s karma has come to bite him.  
  
An insider revealed to Campus Tattler that he has been hiding a particularly scandalous secret. Recent intel has revealed that our supposed golden child is likely with child himself. Our source has not revealed who fathered Graham’s pup, but we can confirm that there is no bond. Perhaps Will thought he could give his pup up for adoption and we wouldn’t notice?  
  
More information to come. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I got suddenly hit with a bunch of ideas for projects so I've been working on some other stuff since I last posted. 
> 
> Anyway, please leave a comment and let me know what you think! I really appreciate everyone who comments! They make my heart happy. 
> 
> Also, feel free to come hang out with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/pink_freud07).


	8. Chapter 8

Will could smell the rage from the moment he opened the front door. The sharp, pungent smell of dry spice and hot flame told him everything he needed to know already and he almost sneezed with how it burned at his nose. Even if he hadn’t already known where he could expect his partner to be, it’s easy to follow the scent through the hallway and find Hannibal curled slightly over his desk.  
  
Will shouldn’t be surprised that Hannibal’s anger is a quiet one. There’s no yelling or shouting like Will’s dad would do on the very rare occasion when Will forgot himself and asked for too much. No, Hannibal’s anger is almost like sadness but for the intensity. Hannibal seems consumed with the twirl of his pencil between the fingers of one hand and the clutch of a tablet in the other. The fireplace near him isn’t lit. It’s gotten too warm for that to be any sort of practical, but even without the fire, there’s a flame reflected in the wet of Hannibal’s eyes.  
  
Will had been angry too. When he’d read Freddie’s “article,” he’d felt the desire to snap and claw and destroy in the way his hand flexed over and over. The anger that burned under his skin had given him the energy to get back from his dorm room with little care for how his feet hurt or legs ached. But as he made those last few steps to the front door, that energy seemed to disappear, passing him from anger into disappointment until he could feel resignation threatening to turn him boneless.  
  
Will walks up behind Hannibal and grips at his partner’s shoulders with both hands. He kneads his hands against the tension that sits in muscles bunched up and ready to pounce. He smooths a hand across Hannibal’s shoulder, along his neck, and up into his hair, scratching lightly at the soft strands hardened by gel. Will waits and holds his breath until he can’t and then lets it rush out in a sigh.  
  
“You’ve seen the article then,” he says.  
  
“It’s _tasteless,_ ” Hannibal says with the sharpness of teeth and tongue. His pencil gets another turn between his fingers. “She will be forced to delete it. Targeting a fellow student in this way will qualify as student misconduct.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter if they make her take it down,” Will sighs, tipping his nose forward to bury in the hair he’s loosened. He breaths in despite the lump that clogs his throat. The scent is shifting from burning, biting anger, but still has heat to it like a soup that would burn his tongue. “The damage is already done. Dr. Crawford will know about it and that will be that.”  
  
Hannibal sets aside both his pencil and tablet. He touches at Will’s arms and moves slowly to prevent knocking his head too hard back against Will’s nose. He urges Will up and back so that he can swivel in his chair and take him to sit across his lap. It’s a tight squeeze to fit both of them, but Hannibal’s chair only gives a quiet squeak and slight groan in the leather as they sink into it together.  
  
“I will talk to him,” Hannibal insists. His face looks more sunken and drawn than Will’s ever seen it before – it even rivals when Hannibal had thought he didn’t intend to keep their pup. Will remembers the uncertainty then that came from fear of what’s happening now.   
  
“And risk making things worse?” Will asks with a bitter laugh that threatens to become a sob. He licks his lips to keep from crying out. “The only good thing about Freddie’s article is that your name doesn’t show up as a possible father.”  
  
“I could meet with him as a friend, a concerned colleague, and mentor,” Hannibal suggests. His voice is as softs as a whisper but his tone is firm. “I could speak to your importance in the lab and how impressed I’ve been by your contributions.”  
  
Will sighs as he tucks his face further into Hannibal’s neck – his partner’s scent more like a too hot bath now. “If anything you need to be more critical of me now than ever before.”  
  
“Will—” Hannibal interrupts, but Will cuts him off before he can really even get started.  
  
“Your reputation is as someone unforgiving and perfectionistic. It would be strange for you to be suddenly sympathetic,” he reminds his professor. “You have to treat me as harshly as everyone else, if not more so. You have to be disappointed that I would be throwing away my potential.”  
  
Hannibal curls his arms tighter around him and hums a soothing sound. He couldn’t possibly feel enough pleasure or contentment for a purr and must have to settle then for another sort of rumbling, comforting noise. “Failing to acknowledge your skills and aptitude regardless of a pup _would_ be a waste of your potential.”  
  
“If you don’t think it about anyone else, you can’t say it about me.”  
  
“Alana asked me to look after you,” Hannibal tells him. It’s the first Will’s hearing of it, but he’s not surprised.  
  
“ _Alana_ isn’t who we have to worry about,” he offers as another reminder. “And when have you _ever_ done anything just because you were asked.”  
  
“You expect me to be cruel to you,” Hannibal says. It’s not said like a question, but Will knows he’s being asked to confirm that he really means what he says and knows what it means.  
  
When Will does think about what he’s asking for, it _hurts_. His professor’s insight is particularly _sharp_ and _cutting_. It will be administered just when Will already feels the most flayed open. This should be a time when Will is feeling his most settled and grounded. He and his home should feel defensible and unshakable, but in reality he feels anything but. There is no certainty in what happens next – not with school, not his understanding of himself, not the comfort he gets in his partner.  
  
“You know it’s the only viable option,” Will says and hates that he has to say it.  
  
“There are others,” Hannibal says carefully. “I’m sure of it.”  
  
Will knows Hannibal is thinking of the same options Will gave a moment’s consideration to once his anger deflated. His partner is probably giving particular attention to the same option that Will got caught on. It’s the same one Will has said he will never do.  
  
He would be sparing his career and sacrificing Hannibal’s. Hannibal’s career has long been his most consistent and cherished thing and independence has been Will’s. Already, this last shred of separateness that he clings to has felt more and more tenuous as Hannibal bought more and more things for Will and the pup that Will would never be able to afford himself. **  
**  
“I knew what it meant when we made this decision,” Will says, feeling the tears in his eyes as he forces a smile. “There was part of me that hoped I could make it the whole way, but we both knew that wouldn’t work. You were peculiarly indulgent.”  
  
The tops of Will’s thighs push against the lower curve of his belly. His middle is too big and swollen to accommodate sitting in Hannibal’s lap perfectly comfortably for too long. But when he shifts, Hannibal doesn’t complain even though he must be losing circulation to his legs. Hannibal only follows with hands ready to brace him. Will’s world may crumble and fall apart, but Hannibal’s can’t. His professor has to remain steady and sure.  
  
“I love you,” Will whispers against his partner’s neck. “And I can’t be the reason you lose what you worked so hard for. That’s all I can do.”  
  
Hannibal sighs and turns his neck to press a kiss to Will’s hair. “We’re maintaining our position on the event horizon of chaos,” he says in resignation.  
  
Will feels just as resigned as he answers, “Yes, we are.”

  
\---  
  


The only fortunate thing about Freddie’s article is that it came just on the cusp of spring break.  
  
Will decides to take advantage of the week off as a time to decompress and – when he can admit it – _hide away_. Will has no desire to go anywhere or do anything. With Beverly angry with him and all of campus considering him a pariah, there’s nowhere for him to be and no one to see. There’s only curling into his nest with the scents of him and Hannibal and the cushion of pillows and blankets and clothes.  
  
He asks Hannibal to move the bed with the nest into the corner of the room and gives it a ceiling during that week. The ceiling is a simple sheet stiff enough to not cave in too easily and thin enough to allow a little light in from a lamp or two nearby. The additions and alterations make it more difficult to get in and out of it as he becomes less and less agile, but that’s a sacrifice he can make.  
  
He barely leaves the nest that whole week. Hannibal indulges him by bringing him food there and joining him for some sleep. Will thinks his partner might not be getting enough sleep, but knowing he probably sleeps too much makes it hard to know if Hannibal is actually normal. Whenever it is that Hannibal sleeps, it’s usually overlapping the start of Will’s rest or the tail end. Sometimes Will wakes up to him there and at other times he is gone. When he manages to have a few overlapping hours with Hannibal, he knows that he clings and clings _hard_.   
  
In this week, it worries him to become _clingy_. Where before he wanted to be smothered and spend endless time cocooned with his partner, now he worries over the impulse. With Freddie’s revelation, he feels scared and seeking comfort in his partner has become _scarier_ in how he wants it so badly. Part of him knows it’s possible he could have everything _beyond_ his dreams but finds it hard to actually _believe_.  
  
On one of those days during that week, he thinks of one of the sessions of group supervision when Hannibal had advised that Frederick might ask his client how it feels to be happy. Frederick, of course, had failed to understand the question and looked at Hannibal like it was the stupidest one he’d ever heard. Alana had offered the perspective that sometimes feeling happy didn’t always mean feeling _good_ and Will felt like he’d been wearing a giant flashing sign saying _“That’s me!”_  
  
The prospect of happiness is one he doesn’t trust. Nothing seems to go his way for long. When he feels a pang at his chest, he curls in tighter, buries himself deeper into his nest, and encourages himself to drift back to sleep.

  
\---  
  


The week in bed is hardly enough to suffice. If Will was familiar with staring before, it’s nothing compared to now. It seems the pup was polite enough to wait to make themself known until after the secret was revealed. The week in the nest seems to have given the pup ample opportunity to grow his belly into an undeniable round swell, so even if there was a point to hiding it, he couldn’t now.  
  
The weather is warmer and there’s no practical or comfortable use for big sweatshirts, particularly when they just make him feel cooked from the inside out. His simple button-up shirt is baggier around his chest and tighter as it tries to cascade around his belly. Eyes flick between his belly and his face wherever he goes and whispers follow along behind him. Some people are polite enough to hold a hand in front of their mouths or tipping towards their friends as they do it, but others test the definition of a _whisper_.  
  
Will just walks by, drags a hand across the expanse of his belly, and tries to focus on enjoying the growing of his pup while it lasts. Though his peers might not think so, this pup is still an amazing, miraculous little thing. Will wonders how they would react if they saw him _smiling_.  
  
When Will enters Dr. Crawford’s class for the first time since spring break started, Freddie is absent, which is something at least – even if Beverly still won’t really look at him. Dr. Crawford doesn’t call on him at all during class, despite the fact that Will actually _does_ raise his hand this time. The only acknowledgment Will gets comes at the end of class when Dr. Crawford catches his eye and, with just a look, tells Will to stay after. And so Will lingers while his peers pack up with eyes on him like he’s a kid caught being naughty and put in a timeout.   
  
He follows Dr. Crawford to his office and takes a seat when he’s told to. He can hear in Dr. Crawford’s offer that’s there’s worry over a perceived fragileness to Will’s _condition._ Will sits and he waits in silence. He doesn’t know that there’s anything he could say in this moment that would be guaranteed to help him. He keeps his eyes downcast for the most part, only flickering up towards Dr. Crawford every so often just to check.   
  
“So you don’t want to talk about it,” Dr. Crawford observes after the silence has gone on too long for his liking. When Will’s eyes flick upwards, Dr. Crawford has his hands folded together on his desk and his brows furrowed in seriousness.  
  
“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” Will says with a sigh. “But you’ve got to talk about it, so let’s have it.”  
  
The furrow in Dr. Crawford’s brow deepens as does a frown. His eyes barely blink, only looking for a second at a stack of papers on his desk. “I know you don’t like to be the cause for concern, but I am officially concerned about you.”  
  
“Officially?” Will asks, blinking away towards that same stack of papers. He stares at them as if with enough time and effort, they’d reveal themselves.  
  
Dr. Crawford clears his throat and squares his shoulders. “Yes, that’s right.”  
  
“Does that mean you’re kicking me out of the program?” Will asks. Even though the pages won’t reveal themselves to him, he now suspects he knows what they are. Will knows all about professionals meant to provide _guidance_ who do very little but punish. He had plenty of school counselors and guidance counselors who ultimately did very little. “Is that what _official concern_ does for me?”  
  
Dr. Crawford sighs and pushes away from his desk to stand. He reaches up on the wall and slips his fingers under a picture frame to lift it away from the nail it hangs on. “Hold that,” he says as he sits back in his chair and holds out the frame towards Will, who reaches up to take it. When Dr. Crawford lets go, Will realizes just how heavy it is in his hands. “That’s my doctorate degree and, up on that wall, you’ll find my Masters and my Bachelor’s. Don’t you want that?”  
  
Will looks at the diploma in the frame – the sweeping archaic lettering for the name of the university and the word _Doctor_ , the clear print of _Jack Crawford_ , the looping letters in the signatures, and the shiny gold of the university emblem at the bottom.   
  
He sets the frame back on the desk as he sighs. “Of course I do.”  
  
“Your actions don’t tell the same story, Will,” Dr. Crawford says as his eyebrows curve upwards in disbelief and it rankles Will in how it feels _condescending_.  
  
“Not all our choices are consciously calculated,” he says with jaw clenched.  
  
“No,” he says as he looks down at Will. “But our decisions are.”  
  
“What do you want me to say? That I shouldn’t have gotten knocked up? Sure. But I did, so there’s no use lecturing me about it now. That I should have gotten rid of it? That’s not for you to decide,” Will says sharply. The pup gives a rolling shift in his belly as his chest pangs and aches. He wants to rub and soothe the pup back to sleep, but wouldn’t dare touch his belly and draw any more attention. “You know, sometimes, Dr. Crawford, a good plan is less about finding the best alternative, than it is about finding one that _works_.”  
  
Dr. Crawford sighs and brings a hand up to rub at his forehead. “Did you ever think to come to me with this?”  
  
“No,” Will says plainly. “I didn’t come to you because I didn’t want to.”  
  
“You didn’t think I could help?”  
  
“Was I wrong?” Will asks and his smile is sharp with irony and bitterness. “Are you going to help? Or are you just going to tell me you disapprove? Because, if that’s it, then I think you have my answer.”  
  
“This is a serious thing, Will,” Dr. Crawford insists. “It’s something I should have known. I’m _responsible_ for you.”  
  
Will suppresses a roll of his eyes and instead closes them with a stuttering, exasperated breath. What Will wants is to be responsible for _himself_. He always has been in some ways – responsible for meeting his own needs for the most part, particularly the emotional ones. To not be able to now and depend on the willingness of others to provide has him flinching and rolling his neck to hide it. 

  
\---  
  


Hannibal has done as Will asked. He has given Will very little wiggle-room to slack off and has asked him to do more and more work, despite – or maybe _because of_ – Alana’s confused looks and glares. He criticizes the time it takes for Will to complete transcriptions and coding even though he knows the tedious work literally puts Will to sleep and the need to complete it within the confidential space of the lab keeps him from the comfort and safety of their nest.  
  
Some days, Alana sees Will as one of the first students to arrive after her and the last student to leave when she does. Other days, Will is too tired to leave home and Hannibal has to discuss Will shirking his work with Alana. It’s strangely painful to say such things – only strange in the sense that, as Will has pointed out, none of these words or sentiments are anything out of the ordinary for Hannibal. Frederick has gotten similar criticisms as he’s continued to drag his feet in his completion of his dissertation, but Hannibal might hardly have given it a second thought if not for the similarities.  
  
Today, Alana had ushered Will out the door by force of will as she was leaving. Will looked at him apologetically in a way that both serves the purpose of their deception and expresses how conflicted he feels about leaving. Will _wants_ to work hard, he knows. He _wants_ to keep close.  
  
After they leave, Hannibal looks over Will’s transcriptions and coding and smiles when he finds notes in the margins that are entirely unrelated to the particular paper they’re working on but are no less valuable or insightful for it. Will has scribbled in seemingly every spare space thoughts about connections to other potential papers, observations about attachment styles, reflections about other interventions that might have worked. In public, Hannibal will have to remind him to keep his attention focused on the specifics of the paper. In private, Hannibal can appreciate his partner’s cleverness. _Cunning boy_ , he thinks with another twitch of a smile.  
  
The knock at his door is both unexpected and not. It’s not his office hours; there have been no appointments scheduled; and both Alana and Will as his most common suspects are on their way to their homes. That only leaves a couple of options, none of which are particularly appealing in this moment.  
  
When it’s Jack on the other side of the door, Hannibal braces himself for the challenge he had known was coming. He straightens his posture as properly as he can and switches his mind to the track that’s most analytical, most professional, and most detached from his emotions. He inhabits the role that was well-worn. It has frayed in his time with Will, but Hannibal has had to stitch it back up again.  
  
“Hello, Jack,” he greets.  
  
Jack doesn’t return his greeting. He just pushes his way into Hannibal’s office with his overbearing presence and helps himself to a seat in a chair. “I thought you would be the one to come visit me,” Jack observes.  
  
“It hardly seemed necessary,” Hannibal states, _lies_. One of many lies to come, he’s sure. “I assumed we were in agreement.”  
  
Jack purses his lips and frowns as he crosses his arms over his chest. “How do you feel about Will’s situation?”  
  
Hannibal takes a moment to consider the variety of feelings he has had and which of them would have some overlap with Jack’s. There seem to be a few different options – concern, frustration, weariness. He remembers the one Will told him to say: “Disappointed.”  
  
“Then we are in agreement,” Jack states with a hum and a nod. “Will could have done things no one else could.”  
  
“He seems doubly determined to overcome twice as much difficulty,” Hannibal observes. “If he is as remarkable as you’d hoped, maybe he could also defeat the odds against him and be all the more impressive.”  
  
Jack hums and shifts in his seat. “I’ve been giving what you said some thought,” he announces.  
  
Hannibal controls the breath in his chest and each feature of his face. Nothing moves without him wishing it to. “What was it I said?”  
  
“About my trying to fix Will to fix my wife,” Jack explains. “I asked Bella about having children before I knew she was sick. She was already dying and I was looking towards a new future.”  
  
“We make wishes for the future with the information we have in the present,” Hannibal observes as he loosens his own grip on the air in his chest. “You see Will having a child he ostensibly shouldn’t have, while you expected to have a child yourself and found that you no longer could.”  
  
“I was concerned about my wife but didn’t know anything until it was too late. Seems the same has happened with Will,” Jack says with a deep breath he lets out through his nose like a sigh. “I was planning Will’s career and overlooked the signs I was seeing that would get in the way.”  
  
“You don’t have to lose Will,” Hannibal says, a risk, but a seemingly sympathetic one. “There can still be a future.”  
  
“According to policy, I should seriously reconsider Will’s placement in the program,” Jack states. “He may no longer be able to meet the requirements.”  
  
Hannibal hums and tries to convey an air of detachment and professional curiosity as he says, “And according to best practice?”  
  
“That’s what I’m not sure of,” Jack admits. He looks closely at Hannibal as he asks, “What do you suggest?”  
  
“There have been times when you have bent and broken rules when I might not have,” Hannibal answers. “But they have usually resulted in success. I’m not certain I should be the one to make this determination for you.”  
  
“Do you think the _Alpha_ plans to help him?” Jack asks. “I could maybe make an argument if he’ll have the support.”  
  
Hannibal chooses the most honest answer he possibly could: “I don’t make it a habit to know my students’ personal lives.”  
  
“Not even a suspicion?” Jack probes. The turn of his smile is taunting as he adds, “I know that there are things you know without necessarily having to ask.”  
  
“Alana suggested Will might have a boyfriend, but she didn’t know for sure.”  
  
“Does it seem like he’d have time for a boyfriend?” Jack questions. “I assume you’ve been giving him enough work to have him spending most of his time here.”  
  
He considers telling Jack of Will’s days away from the lab and repeat the criticisms he has given as part of their cover. However, he’s stuck between two implications: Will is slacking off or Will has no one to support him. Either option seems to give Jack’s concern more grounds.  
  
“I give him as much work as I do my other students,” Hannibal says. “But there is the possibility that he spends his time with someone when he has his spare moments.”  
  
Jack looks at him for a long moment and then simply hums and furrows his brows.

  
\---  
  


Bedelia’s visit comes a week after Jack’s. It’s later than Hannibal had thought she might, but it had been inevitable all the same. She comes with her usual airs and graces, but with her usually careful expression twisted slightly by disapproval and alarm. She clicks her way into his office on her high heels and brings her high horse with her. She is even dressed from head to toe in perfectly clean, pristine white, showing to everyone who cared to look that there are no stains to be found and if there ever were, she got rid of them.  
  
“What have you done, Hannibal?” she asks, her voice is still quiet but her tone comes across loud and clear. It’s sharp with accusations as are her eyes as she looks at him with meticulously honed skills in observation. The dishonesty that his conversation with Jack necessitated had been difficult, but the honesty he will have to endure with Bedelia might be just as challenging. She’ll make sure of it.  
  
Hannibal hums and sits back in his chair with his fingers interlocking in his lap. “I think you know.”  
  
“This isn’t the time for you to be _glib,_ ” she insists as she stands over his desk and looks down at him from above. “I _warned you_ about your relationship with Will Graham. I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you would be _sensible_.”  
  
Hannibal sighs and looks around his office. It’s the space that would usually be his home-turf, his stronghold and his battle station. But it has become the place where he most feels the need to keep his guard up and still feels more vulnerable than he would like.  
  
“You cannot control with respect to whom you love,” he admits.  
  
“You think this shows that you understand love?” Bedelia questions. “Jack Crawford came to see me. He asked me questions about your relationship with Will, _your student_. He felt enough doubt in whatever it is you told him to feel the need to verify.”  
  
“What did you tell him?” he asks. Bedelia has kept quiet for them for a long while, even as it incriminated her the longer she knew and said nothing. Still, she might be able to redeem herself in some people’s eyes if she gave them up now when everyone is desperate to know.  
  
“I told him that I had no idea Will was pregnant. I _told him_ that if you sired Will’s pup, it would be massively inappropriate,” she _tells him_ firmly. “And evidently he thinks you are keeping something from him and protecting Will. Are you?”  
  
He shifts in his seat and tips his chin. “To the best of my ability.”  
  
“And this is what you have to show for it,” Bedelia states coolly. “Will is at the center of gossip across campus and potentially losing his opportunity to make a better life for himself.”  
  
Hannibal takes a deep breath in and sighs quietly as he exhales. “I was confident in my ability to help him, to solve him.”  
  
Bedelia’s expression softens slightly with care or with pity, Hannibal doesn’t know. “To save him,” she observes, barely more than a whisper.  
  
He has tried to use his knowledge to support Will in navigating a number of things – school, their relationship, their pup – as it is his responsibility to do. He has wanted to help Will to shrug away the layers of past circumstances and learned behaviors and move through the world lighter and freer. Despite Hannibal’s efforts – or maybe _because of_ them – Will is neither.  
  
“It’s hard to accept that I could fail him, so profoundly,” he confesses.  
  
Bedelia gives him the smallest of smiles. “I’ll admit I never imagined you being so _impractical_ that you would want a pup, especially not like this.”  
  
“There are times when I’ve found it surprising and surreal myself,” he agrees. He feels his own smile turning at his lips as he thinks of the nights he has curled around Will and wondered at how someone could have changed his life so thoroughly and so quickly. There is a _nest_ overtaking his room and, in that nest, there is his partner and their growing pup, for whom he has prepared a _nursery_ down the hall. As he has fallen asleep on those nights, it has been to dreams of a pup as curious and clever as Will. “I never considered having a child but now I understand the appeal. The opportunity to guide and support and, in many ways, direct a life.”  
  
“Young people are supposed to be the lenses through which we see ourselves living beyond this life,” Bedelia reminds him. “Will Graham _is young_ and still has so much life to live.”  
  
“Will made the decision,” he insists. He recalls her concern and how it had influenced him. He may not take all of her advice – and likely never will – but she has been valued and heeded when she made her point well. “I did nothing to convince him.”  
  
“I’m sure you did a great many things to convince him,” Bedelia says and if she were the kind of person to give casual, affectionate touches, she might touch his hand. Instead, she remains proper and only further softens the look in her eyes. “But it was good of you to control your influence, even if it was too late. You have to control your influence even more now. Otherwise, you risk Will growing to resent it.”  
  
Hannibal nods. He too has continued to notice how Will feels challenged by accepting what he’s given. “It’s a delicate balance to not give too much and not give too little.”  
  
Bedelia gives him a singular quiet laugh. “You and Will Graham did not choose each other because it was easy.”

  
\---  
  


As class has come to a close and his peers shuffle with hurried, frazzled movements to pack up and whisk away to whatever grabs their attention next, Will waits and pulls out his phone. He checks his email inbox. There’s nothing new.  
  
Dr. Crawford has made no mention of further _official concern_ and, though Will keeps checking his email over and over, there’s been nothing to say anything about the status of his scholarship. Dr. Crawford has resumed grilling him on content during class and seems to look at him through the corner of his eye from the first minute to the last. Will isn’t so optimistic or naïve to think that this is a good sign. It’s safer to assume that Dr. Crawford won’t decide in his favor or, even if he does, that those higher above might overrule.  
  
Each day in class, he expects to be put on trial until he manages to prove himself in whatever way Dr. Crawford is wanting. He has tried to do so by providing every answer Dr. Crawford wants of him and leaves class all too often with a headache as retribution. Today is no different. A headache blooms in the center of his skull and makes him grit his teeth with how much it _hurts_. But that headache is nothing compared to how he flinches when Freddie walks up to stand right beside him as he packs up his things.  
  
It turned out that Freddie had been forbidden from interacting with Will for a month while they “ _conducted an investigation of the misconduct_.” Will did get _that_ email. As such, Will was spared having to deal with her for a full four weeks. Even if the gossip continued and the number and frequency of judgmental looks from others only seemed to grow as his belly did, Will also got to attend a good number of classes with no further biting, snide remarks from her.  
  
He is getting _so close_ to having his pup. He only has a few more weeks and he’s already finished most of his assignments. He has crossed off days on his calendar and items on his to-do list. Once they are all crossed off, he can take a break from anyone who isn’t Hannibal or their pup.  
  
Freddie positions herself in the aisle, blocking him into his row. He doesn’t even bother standing up. He wants as little time on his feet as he can manage and Freddie never makes anything quick or easy. “I’m glad I could catch you,” she says with false enthusiasm. Her hair bounces as she nods at him and gives him a big, bright, fake smile. “I wanted to discuss something with you.”  
  
“You’re joking, right?” he replies with a scoff. “You can’t be serious. There’s nothing for us to say to each other.”  
  
“Please. Let me apologize for my behavior,” she says and the shift in her expression to sad, furrowed brows and pouting lips is just as false and exaggerated and so much so that he can’t suppress a roll of his eyes. “It was sloppy and misguided and hurtful.”  
  
“You made my private life for public consumption,” he reminds her, because apparently she forgot. “You made wild accusations and called your assumptions _evidence_.”  
  
When Freddie’s eyes sharpen in genuine annoyance, Will almost smiles – if only because the charade was much more annoying to have to pretend to endure. “I can undo that,” she informs him as if it was so simple.  
  
His secret is out. Everyone can see his great, big, round belly. At this point, it’s impossible to miss. He has grown so big that there is the part of him that recognizes each day when he gets dressed that there would have been no way for him to hide it forever. He’d been too slim before he got pregnant for the pup to have anywhere to grow but _out_. The weather has only gotten warmer as he grew so eventually his sweatshirts would have drowned him in sweat and overheated him. Even in the t-shirt he wears today, he feels constrained and constricted.  
  
Even so, having the news blasted to everyone on campus and portrayed as a sham certainly didn’t _help him_.  
  
“I’m supposed to help you with what?” Will asks with another scoff. This one is so sharp it jolts through his chest and belly enough to risk waking the pup. He touches a hand to the side as a silent apology for the disruption to the nap the pup had just started to take. “I help you with online ad sales? Make everyone think you’ve suddenly found a conscience?”  
  
“Look,” she starts as she crosses her arms across her chest. She’s dressed demurely, buttoned-up, but still with some leopard print because she can’t help herself. Her eyes watch the moment of his hand and he can already see the notes she’ll type into her phone as soon as she’s out of the door. “You and I may have our differences, but I also think we both know what it’s like to be ambitious.”  
  
“Follow ambition carelessly and you wind up here,” Will tells her without an ounce of sympathy. “What’s against you is that your brand of _ambition_ is _obnoxious_.”  
  
“I can undo what I said,” she suggests and then leans in closer and lowers her voice. She flicks her eyes down to his belly and back up again to make sure he’s noticed. “I can also make it a lot worse.”  
  
Will’s headache pounds harder behind his skull and his jaw aches and pains as he grinds his teeth. “You ask me to help you rehabilitate your image and then _threaten_ me when it seems like I won’t do what you want?” he questions. “That really seems _smart_ to you? _Fuck off_.”  
  
Freddie hums as she scans her eyes around the empty room. The smile she gives him when she looks back at him speaks of the audience she’s imaging for herself. “Just remember that I offered to play nice together,” she says with a wink.  
  
Will suppresses a groan as he finally stands. It’s harder to conceal the clumsiness and strain with the heavy weight pulling down at his middle and his back having given up long ago. He can see from the look on her face that she’s noticed and enjoys any hint of his struggle.  
  
“Get out of my way, Freddie.”

  
\---  
  


Unfortunately, Freddie is true to her word and feeds more lies into the story. She doesn’t publish them to keep herself from being incriminated, but word of mouth has proven itself good enough. She’s sprinkled in extra details into the existing scandal. Now he is not only the poor, unbonded pregnant Omega. He is also a naïve first-year student who partied too hard and recklessly or he’s a chronic flirt with too little common sense to use protection. The rumors Freddie spreads never portray him as loved or cared for, of course, and they follow him everywhere, even into lab no matter how much Alana tries to discourage it.  
  
“I hear what they say,” Hannibal announces when Will has just about drifted to sleep.  
  
It’s one of the few times they get to spend together now. They haven’t even spent much time together in lab with Dr. Crawford’s suspicion looming over them and the need to avoid yet another rumor being added to the mix. Maybe having so many would make that one rumor have less impact, but there’s no accounting for how the severity of a scandal can make it burn hotter and brighter.  
  
“It’s fine,” Will says with a groan.  
  
He shifts his hips to turn himself over and gives another groan at how sore his body feels. Will is uncomfortable, of course — aching back and feet — but even if he complains, it also feels like a deserved pain in service of something greater. The pup has been worth every twinge in his back and sleepless night as pain serves as a reminder that a person is still alive.  
  
“It’s _not_ ,” Hannibal insists as he offers Will his help in turning over so that they can face each other even in the dark when there’s hardly a chance to see each other.  
  
Will can scent Hannibal’s frustration and he doesn’t want it disturbing or diluting the scents they’ve encouraged to sink into the many layers of their nest. He doesn’t want their pup to come home to a nest smelling like anything but safety and love.   
  
Will’s hand finds Hannibal’s cheek in the dark and, with his hand as his anchor, he brings their faces closer together to share intimacy in their touch and their breaths. “It is what it is.”  
  
“Do you feel ashamed?” Hannibal whispers into the open air. Will can feel how it sizzles like static. If they were to shift and wriggle enough, they might manage to see a spark.  
  
“I don’t care about the unseemly as much as you do,” Will promises as he feels Hannibal’s breath ghost across his cheek. “I’ve learned to live with imperfect situations.”  
  
Hannibal’s fingertips trail so lightly across the skin of his arm that he has goosebumps and shivers. “It _sickens_ me to think that they think our pup is the product of underage drinking at a dirty frat party.”  
  
Will hums and presses as close to his partner as he can. He brings their lips close enough to kiss but doesn’t press their lips together quite yet. He touches his fingers along the jut of Hannibal’s cheekbone. “Even if they knew, it would simply be a different flavor of scandal. Reckless slut at a party or reckless slut sleeping for favors. The only thing that matters now is what’s at stake.”  
  
Hannibal’s touch is delicate as he traces a line down the center of his chest to the top of his belly. “Do you wish you could be honest?”  
  
Will’s fingers start at the base of his belly’s curve and travel upwards to meet Hannibal’s. “I feel this pup heavy and thriving in my belly and wish that everyone could know that this beautiful being came from you,” he vows as he closes his eyes and lets himself _feel_. “I would like nothing more than to let everyone know who I allowed to give me a pup.”  
  
Every day since he’s known, he’s smoothed one hand over the height of the curve at his belly and each day he has felt awe. As his hand has traveled higher and farther and he has nearly felt at his breaking point, he has also felt the thrill of the unknown. He wonders if it’s maybe not all that different from the call of the void that Hannibal spoke of so long ago. Will doesn’t know what’s firing or misfiring inside his skull. He can believe there is fear, but perhaps his pleasure is what fires when it shouldn’t. He’s afraid of doing some things that could be good and pleased by doing things he’s not supposed to and this was what he was supposed to do least of all.  
  
“You did this to me,” he says as he catches Hannibal’s hand and encourages him in his touch. “Toiling for a creation you set in motion.”  
  
“You have my gratitude and my wonder every day,” Hannibal promises. “Every criticism you expected from me came paired with praise and admiration I wasn’t allowed to say.”  
  
“Tell me you love me,” Will says, almost pleading, almost whining, almost _crying out_. “That would be enough.”  
  
“ _I love you, Will_ ,” Hannibal whispers, rasping. “Beyond comprehension. With no care for convenience.”  
  
Will feels the words as they hang in the dark and vibrate in the air as echoes of the rumble and pounding of Hannibal’s heart in his chest. Will finally presses their mouths together to taste that praise and drink it down to fill his belly further and soak into his bones. He strokes along Hannibal’s body, committing it to memory in the dark.  
  
Hannibal drifts his hand away from his belly to knead at his lower back until Will moans with the pleasure of touch and pain eased. Hannibal continues to rub at his shoulders and the back of his neck, working away the aches with diligence and care as their mouths press against each other.  
  
Will’s exhaustion is what separates them too soon, but he falls asleep in Hannibal’s arms and that’s all he could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been forever since I updated! I've been working on other projects but I wanted to update this before the new year :)
> 
> Also, when I was rereading to remind myself where I left off, I noticed typos! Sorry about those too! Editing is my least favorite part of the writing process...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added tags just in case anyone was sensitive to those things, so take a look if you're not sure! :)

_It’s quiet. There are no sounds of water flowing or birds chirping. The bright white that blankets everything gives his sight the same eerie sense of absence. Everything is open all around him. The ice under his feet shines and reflects the clear blue of the skies.  
_  
_There is a fishing rod in his hand and, when he looks down, there is a hole drilled in the ice under his feet. It’s like the one he did with his dad a couple of times when they lived in Michigan. They’d only lasted one winter there.  
  
The fish are less hungry. They’re too cold and tired to be hungry, but he’s supposed to get them to bite.  
  
He doesn’t have time to wait. The ice starts to crack – loud, snapping, breaking noises, and huge rifts forming under his feet. He knows not to move. His dad told him that if the ice cracks, he should be careful about how he moves. He should spread his feet very, very slowly. He inches his feet apart as carefully as he can, but a crack breaks bigger and wider.  
  
He looks down and his vision is blocked by the huge waxing moon of his belly, just a sliver away from full. After a full moon, there will be a new one.  
  
The crack runs straight between the bracket of his knees and travels down to disappear below his belly. He can’t spread his feet any wider. His hips ache, feeling all the more brittle and breakable in the cold, like he might crack open too. The ice shatters and he falls through the rift that’s formed at his feet. As he descends lower and lower, the cold is like pins and needles on the knobs of his spine, but his belly feels like burning fire. He tries to swim towards the surface but his arms only flail as he sinks deeper and deeper. The cold of the water’s depths seems to constrict and crush him as he scrambles for breath. _

  
\---  
  


Will gasps and pants as he jolts awake. His eyes shoot open and his heart pounds out of his chest. His breath stutters and it’s everything he can to do to keep from choking on his own spit. He can’t shake the heaviness that has settled over him. His belly is huge and round, cushioned by pillows that have squashed as he shifted in his sleep and fallen out of place. He hisses through his teeth as his back and hips _ache_.   
  
His sweat cools on his skin as a fan blows across him. The weather’s not too warm yet, but with the extra blood and pup and the cushions that surround him in the nest, he feels overheated most of the time. He’d had to take down the ceiling of the nest when it became too hard to maneuver in. Open now at the top, it feels vacant and chilled and vulnerable, especially without Hannibal’s body with him to provide warmth.  
  
Will has to roll to give himself some momentum and grab fistfuls of the nest to give himself leverage in order to heave upright. His head feels woozy and swims in his skull. He rubs one hand to his sweaty forehead and presses the other against his swollen, _heavy_ belly. The pup dropped days ago and has sunken head down deep in his pelvis. It’s made it possible for him to catch his breath, but the weight pulls harshly at his back. Will arches and stretches to work through the pain and sighs as he grinds his knuckles at either side of his spine.  
  
His legs wobble as he stands and another rush passes through his skull. He braces his hand against what used to be his waist and has since curved and rounded out. He rubs along the curve as he places one step after another down the hall. He knows he’ll find Hannibal at his desk. Whether at work or at home, he’s been behind a desk night and day.  
  
As he expected, Hannibal sits in the soft glow of a lamp as he grades a paper or makes a lesson plan or writes a book chapter draft — always a task to finish. His jacket has been off since dinner and the matching vest with it. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top and rolled up at the sleeves. The blueish glow of the laptop against his face makes the shadows deeper, showing exhaustion in the lines of his face.  
  
“Hannibal?” he calls out.  
  
“Yes, Will,” he responds, not looking up from the screen or even halting the movement of his eyes as he reads.  
  
“Come to bed.”  
  
Hannibal hums but still doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Will might not know he was heard except that Hannibal answers, “I’m working.”  
  
Will takes a few wobbly steps forward to touch his hand to Hannibal’s arm. He can see on the screen that Hannibal is doing yet another round of edits in bright red. At least there are fewer this time. It’s not seemingly every sentence anymore.  
  
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Will encourages.  
  
“I’m afraid not,” Hannibal says with a tsk of his tongue. “This is the last thing to cross off my list of things to get done for today.”  
  
The ache starts to creep into Will’s back again and down through his thighs to cramp at his calves. He’s too tired to push Hannibal on it and as his restless sweat still chills him, he’s too shaky to ask more.  
  
“Fine,” he says with a sigh.  
  
He finds his way back to the nest, reaches out with unsteady hands to crawl back in. He rearranges the pillows the way they have to be for him to sleep. He lies there in the dark and lets his body’s tiredness take over him.

  
\---  
  


_He washes up at the bottom of a deep well. He’s shivering in the cold, damp, and dark. It smells like sadness, desperation, and loneliness. His winter clothes have disappeared, washed away. Instead he’s only in a thin hospital gown. He rubs his hands against his arms but they only shake and he doesn’t warm up.  
  
He can’t see in the dark. He looks his eyes around, but he can’t see. He feels across the ground and feels nothing. He feels for walls and there’s nothing there either, but still he knows he’s down in a well.  
  
Light shines down from a hole at the top and his Hannibal is there looking down at him too. Will tries to call out, tries to say something, but nothing comes. No sound leaves his mouth though he wants to beg and plead.  
  
He’s too heavy to push himself to stand. There is still no ground for him to feel and push up against. He stays there, laying in near all-encompassing darkness. As Hannibal disappears, a door closes and the light with it. _

  
\---  
  


Will wakes again much like he did before: still breathless, still aching, still _alone_. He feels behind him and pats along the nest to be sure that there’s no one there. He has been known to push Hannibal away in the night if he’s feeling too overheated. His palm feels only the layers of the nest with clothes and blankets. Getting himself out of bed is just as hard the second time and his back only seems to ache _more_. He scoots on his legs to shift his hips and groans as the movement comes with a cramping pain Will’s had to get used to showing up from time to time.  
  
As sunlight pours in through the window, he expects Hannibal in the kitchen making breakfast. He finds the space cold and empty and with no Hannibal in sight. He walks back to the study and finds Hannibal still there and asleep on the couch. His laptop is open on the coffee table and the screen has gone black.   
  
Will closes the laptop as he sits on the couch. He can feel his heart start to quicken its pace in his chest. His eyes flicker between the laptop, his own hands, Hannibal’s sleeping face, and up around the room. Hannibal’s desk is covered in neat stacks of books and papers, too in demand to put away on the shelves but still kept orderly. Meanwhile, Will’s desk is barren and empty and might even be collecting dust. In that moment, in the shadow of his nightmares, the state of his desk feels akin to a symbol.  
  
“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal greets as he touches his hand to Will’s knee in greeting.  
  
“You slept down here?” Will asks and the tremor in his voice is loud even in his own ears. “I told you to come to bed.”  
  
“I drifted off to the last of Alana’s dissertation edits,” Hannibal explains as he starts to sit up, so much more easily and gracefully than Will can do, so agile and able to go everywhere and do everything that Will no longer can. Hannibal presses his hand through his hair to smooth it back into place as he says, “Unfortunately, there’s still Frederick’s to deal with.”  
  
Will puts a hand to his sternum as he feels it collapsing in and crushing him. The ache takes hold there and clenches deep in his stomach. His throat constricts and the air feels heavier. “You should have come to bed when I told you,” he manages to eke out.   
  
“Will?” Hannibal says as he sits up even straighter and moves closer.  
  
Will’s back gives him a stab of pain as he leans away and he chokes down the groan as he closes his eyes. His jaw clenches and he grinds his teeth until there’s an ache just below the back of his molars. “You make me feel _kept_ ,” Will says and his teeth snap with bite. “ _Debasing_ myself wishing you would come to bed.”  
  
“I was getting work done,” Hannibal answers and though Will can’t see him, he can practically hear Hannibal shifting to cross his legs and fold his hands in his lap.  
  
“ _Getting work done_ ,” Will repeats with a sardonic laugh that rushes out pitifully at the end when it hurts.  
  
“I’m finishing everything before the pup comes,” Hannibal states plainly. “Just like you did. You’ve had your own sleepless nights as well.”  
  
The next laugh that comes out is even closer to a sob. His tongue cuts against the sharpness of his teeth as he counters, “I’ve been finishing all my work _plus some_ – work _you gave me_ while carrying the pup _you gave me_ – and I’m still in the nest _waiting for you_.”  
  
“You told me to give you more work to do because you knew my work is important to me,” Hannibal reminds him. _Patronizing._ “Because you want me to do my work.”  
  
“Don’t talk to me like I don’t know myself,” Will snaps. “I told you I don’t want you _poking around_ in my head.”  
  
“I have always only done what I believe to be in your best interest,” Hannibal replies and Will feels the cold neutrality trickle down his spine like ice water.  
  
“ _Best interests_ ,” Will repeats bitterly and when he opens his eyes he feels how they burn with the tears he holds back. “So vague and open to _manipulation_.”  
  
“What manipulation do you accuse me of?” Hannibal asks and he doesn’t so much as quirk an eyebrow or tilt his lips towards a frown. “I have allowed you to make every decision.”  
  
Will feels anger building him up and panic breaking him down. His hand trembles as he smooths it across the thin t-shirt covering his belly. He tries to take a deep breath to make sure the pup gets air even if he struggles to feel like he can _breathe_. “ _Allowed me_?”  
  
“Which answer is it you want to hear, Will?” Hannibal asks. He dips his chin slightly, but keeps his expression controlled.  
  
The less Hannibal reacts the more it makes Will want to _scream_. He tames the scream in his throat into a rough sort of whisper. “What’s happening now and about to happen _is_ an answer,” Will states firmly. “I want an admission.”  
  
“Admission for what?”  
  
Will curls his arm around his belly as it sits in his lap. His belly gives a dull clench and he doesn’t even wince as he rubs it away. He’s gotten used to that. “You’re fostering codependency.”  
  
Hannibal shifts to sit back deeper into the couch. His fingers are still intertwined and Will can see how they tie themselves together. “Is that what I’m doing?”  
  
Will pulls in air through his nose and his heart pounds so hard he thinks it might come up and out with his exhale. “You don’t want me to have anything that isn’t _you_.”  
  
Hannibal licks his lips and bites his bottom lip, but quickly returns his lips back to a single straight line. “I disagree.”  
  
“You know I have _nothing_ without you!” Will shouts and his voice rings out in Hannibal’s otherwise silent study in his quiet house with all the words Hannibal hasn’t said. “No money, no friends or family to care for me, no hope to raise a pup alone. Nothing, except _you_ , and you won’t even come up to the nest to be with me because you’re _working_.”  
  
“You have been under no illusions about how I am,” Hannibal reminds him. “You knew what it meant when you made the choice. You knew I would work and I would provide.”  
  
“I won’t be controlled by some Alpha,” he says as he pushes himself to stand. He teeters as he gets his bearings.   
  
“Will—” Hannibal starts as he sits forward again and reaches up to brace him, but Will steps away from his hands and his hold.  
  
“Don’t follow me,” Will snaps. “I have exams to deal with. You just stay here and _work_.”  
  
Will walks out of the study and back to the bedroom. He changes his clothes to the ones in the biggest size he has and they still feel tight and constraining against his skin. If Hannibal had noticed, he would have bought bigger ones, even if those clothes would be a waste all too soon.  
  
After he has his clothes on, he goes back to the nest. He leans over as far as he can to slide his hand under his own pillow to find the blanket he tucked underneath it. He brings the soft, peach-colored fabric to his face, pressing it against his cheek and smelling the intertwining of his scent and Hannibal’s. This blanket is the one thing he’s been able to afford to buy on his own. He grips it tighter in his hands as a tear slips down his cheek, pulling away and rubbing his face against his sleeve before the tear can risk soaking the blanket.  
  
He tucks the blanket into his bag with his keys and the supplies he might need for the last of his exams today. The textbooks make it almost unbearably heavy as he puts it on his shoulder, but he just walks down the hall. Will looks at the closed nursery as he passes by and feels sick.  
  
He continues to feel sick and _hurts_ as he walks to the bus stop and waits. Once on the bus, he feels a sparkle of relief when at least there’s a seat available to him. But the thin padding on the hard plastic of the seat does little to ease the ache in his back and hips. There’s no comfort or cushion for the pain that has been radiating through him off and on since he jolted awake from his first nightmare of the day.  
  
By the time he reaches his dorm room, he knows what’s happening. He knows the pain isn’t going away like it usually does. He knows it’s his due date today.  
  
But as painful as he knows it will be, it doesn’t seem nearly as painful as having to take finals _after_ the pup is here. He needs closure. He needs to end the beginning of his life as a student before he embarks on the beginning of his life as a mother. He can’t bear the thought of compromising his attention on his _newborn pup_ for the sake of something like _school_.  
  
He can take pain, he knows it. He can take it when he has to. He knows that going to the hospital too soon would just mean sitting around longer and spending more time with doctors who aren’t really _doing anything_ for him, which seems the same as doing it on his own anyway.  
  
When he arrives at his first exam, he’s sure he’s made the right choice. He takes his seat, receives a copy of his exam, and settles into the first set of questions by the time the next pain comes. Throughout that first set of questions, the occasional clenches and ache feel entirely manageable. If he were superstitious he might be afraid to jinx himself, but as it is he thinks to himself that he could easily complete his finals if this is the only pain he has to endure.  
  
As he moves on to the second set of questions, Will rubs a hand along the curve of his belly to ease his muscles and massage away some of the tension. He tries to focus on the questions, the information, the little bubbles he has to choose between, and filling them in within their little lines. As he gets farther and farther through and flips page after page, he’s able to answer fewer and fewer questions in between the squeezes of his womb. He keeps one hand on his belly and the other gripping his pencil and, in between the distracting surges of pain, he scours through his brain for information he _knows_ is in there _somewhere_.   
  
When he turns in his second-to-last final with shaking hands, he can tell the TA thinks it’s the surge of nerves that comes from racing against time. He isn’t _entirely_ wrong. It’s a safe assumption given the number of times Will’s checked the clock, but it’s not a test’s time limit that he’s worried about.  
  
By his timekeeping, the contractions are still a good distance apart – still not dire enough to necessitate going to the hospital – so he sticks to his plan. One more final, just a couple more hours until he’ll be finished – _focus on one thing at a time_. He gives himself this mantra to repeat to himself over and over as he walks from one building to the next. He places one foot in front of the other through influxes of pain and a pup moving impossibly lower.  
  
The steps are punishing. Raising his knees high enough for each one has sweat soaking his hair and skin. He feels it drip as it reaches the top. His hand seems far off when he sees it and he barely feels the handle to the door as he pushes it open. He glances at the clock in the building’s lobby. He only has a few spare minutes and he uses them to shuffle to the bathroom.  
  
Once in the confines of a stall, his hands fumble to push down his pants and underwear and he sits down heavily on the seat. His hands grip his bare knees and he suppresses a groan as another contraction rolls through him. His fingertips turn white with tension and pressure. His breath comes out as a shuddering sigh. Just as all of the air has escaped him, he feels a wetness trickling and hears the sound of it falling into the bowl and he knows his water just broke.  
  
“ _Okay_ ,” Will whispers quietly to himself and his arms wobble as they try to hold him upright. “ _Okay_. It’s _okay_. There’s still time.”  
  
He rubs at his belly and waits until a contraction comes and goes, but he doesn’t have time for anything more. After he cleans himself up a bit, he pulls the waistband back up his hips. His hands are clumsy and his phone falls out of his pocket into the toilet.  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ” he whispers harshly. His hands tremble and it’s all he can do from hitting his fist against the stall door.  
  
He groans when he has to crouch down to reach and grimaces as he grabs his phone. Getting back to his feet is a struggle, but he does it and leaves the stall to approach the sink. He grimaces again as he pulls paper towels from the dispenser and tries to dry his phone. It’s no use. It’s dead. He wraps it in another few layers of clean, dry paper towels and sets it aside.  
  
He starts the water running as he braces his hands against the sink and stares up at himself in the mirror. His face is flushed and glistening. His lips are bright red from biting them to stifle his sounds of pain. He opens his mouth to take in a greedy breath and watches it travel through his teeth, down his throat, and into his chest. He doesn’t have enough time to take too much of a breather. He washes his hands, tucks his phone in his back pocket, and makes his way to this lecture hall and his one last exam.  
  
Miriam is there to administer it. Her big, round eyes blink up at him as she sets a stack of papers beside him. He looks away quickly as he takes one and passes the rest along. He squints at the new sets of questions and the words blur as his womb gives another squeeze. He flinches against the tightening of his muscles. The pain is no longer light or tolerable. It’s firmly in the domain of _unbearably painful_.  
  
He curls in on himself as much as he can, but the tops of his knees hit against the bottom of the desk while his belly runs into the edge. He hunches his shoulders and tucks his mouth against the sleeve of his shirt to stifle the whine that pulls from his throat. It gets harder and harder to engage in a process of elimination and harder still to focus on neatly filling in the little circles. He feels _sloppy,_ soaked to the bone with sweat and wrung dry.  
  
Other students finish their exams. Quiet whispers of “ _thank you_ ” and “ _have a nice summer_ ” pass through the air in between throbs of his heart in his ears. Panic claws at his skin as he hurts more and more but makes little progress towards feeling any closer to finishing. The next contraction has him gasping, dropping his pencil so suddenly and harshly that it rolls off the edge of his desk and bounces on the floor. The sound of it clattering seems so far off as does the cut-off groan he knows escapes from his mutinous mouth.  
  
“Will?” Miriam says. It’s loud and makes him realize there’s no one left in the room to disturb. She gets up from her seat behind the table near the front. She stands above him and looks down at him as she asks, “Should I get Dr. Crawford?”  
  
His mind swirls with pain and panic. Will feels the sweat that has been clinging to the back of his neck like a damp shawl start to drip. “I don’t know.”  
  
He squeezes his eyes closed and trembles as another pain rolls through him. He knows this is wrong – _it’s all wrong_. It wasn’t supposed to happen here or this way. His instincts tell him he should be nestled in somewhere easily protected – somewhere he can protect and _be_ protected. He wants to flee but can’t run, can’t even back into a cozier corner. He’s open and exposed in a huge lecture hall, hiding away from all sorts of threats to him and his pup, _danger_.  
  
As soon as Dr. Crawford looms in the doorway, Will regrets his earlier indecision. He should have told Miriam to keep him away. Dr. Crawford’s eyes are the most dangerous of them all.  
  
Will feels nausea grip at his throat alongside embarrassment at being seen this way: sweaty, pained, vulnerable. He sees himself in Dr. Crawford’s eyes and reflected back is a sad, little Omega that’s lost his way, a frightened, wounded little prey animal, _pathetic_. In an instant, he feels a surge of protectiveness – or maybe resentment. He clenches his jaw to keep from snapping as Dr. Crawford approaches. Will can feel how Dr. Crawford’s hand hovers near his shoulder and he winces away from it and grits his teeth.  
  
It can take little energy to ignite a reflex, but it takes plenty to maintain it. As another surge of agony overtakes him, he whimpers. He’s not sure which fluctuation is more tiring: that of his pain or of his emotions. He can’t _think_. He doesn’t know what to do.  
  
He’s not sure he can go on.  
  
He needs Hannibal.  
  
“Call him,” Will begs. “I can’t, I—. Please, _please_ , _call him_.”  
  
“Who?” Dr. Crawford asks.  
  
Will feels the words trapped in his chest. The more he wants to say them, the more he is reminded he shouldn’t. He wants Hannibal _so badly_ but may hate himself later for the weakness. He’s held out for this long – _just a little longer_.  
  
“Dr. Lecter,” Miriam says for him.  
  
Will sobs, a heavy, heaving breath followed by a wet hiccupping sort of sound. Streams of tears pour down his cheeks and huge drops splatter in dark spots against the shirt stretched tight over his belly.  
  
Dr. Crawford doesn’t bother to ask for more confirmation than that. Will can hear him sigh and dig out his phone. Will doesn’t risk eye contact with either Miriam or Dr. Crawford. He wants to wade away into the stream where the pains might only be ripples. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine Dr. Crawford and Miriam as uninvited guests who he can fade away.  
  
He feels his eyebrows scrunch together as he squeezes his eyes closed. He focuses on the belly in his lap and stroking a shaking hand over it. He circles his hand over and over again, nearly hypnotized by the wooziness and his own repetitive motions. He tries to keep the movement going as a pain starts to build and pushes a shaky breath from his lungs.  
  
His thoughts are interrupted as Hannibal’s voice rings out next to him.  
  
“Will,” Hannibal says and when Will opens his eyes, he sees his partner crouching down next to him. He’s in his suit and tie and his hair is styled just like always. Will pants at the sight of him, air sputtering and heart floundering in his chest. Even with a concerned wrinkle in his brow, Hannibal looks like the strength and certainty that Will so desperately lacks.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Will gasps, _cries_. “I’m _so sorry_.”  
  
Hannibal wipes away the tears that drip from the edge of his jaw with his thumb and brushes away the trails they left behind with the backs of his fingers. “There’s no need for you to apologize,” he soothes. “Let’s just worry about getting you to the hospital.”  
  
The bob of Will’s head as he nods makes him feel woozy. He feels stiff and heavy as he shuffles his feet and turns. He takes Hannibal’s arm as it’s offered and braces himself to heft himself up from his chair. Will’s legs wobble as he moves to stand. Will whines as his knees threaten to knock together. When he shifts to take a step, his legs give out. His reflexes are slow and lethargic. By the time he thinks to reach out and brace himself, gravity has shifted as he finds himself lifted away from the floor rather than falling against it.  
  
With one arm around his back and the other under his knees, Hannibal’s hold is sturdy. Will’s body feels limp and heavy as Hannibal carries him with ease past Dr. Crawford and Miriam and into the hallway. Will can feel the eyes on him. They burn with the searing pain that grips at his womb. He can’t stop words spilling from his lips. The words _I’m sorry_ pour from him over and over. He wets Hannibal’s neck with his tears and sweat until they drip and soak into his shirt and tie.  
  
Hannibal tries to shush and comfort him with soft sounds and soothing hums. Will moves his arms desperately to cling tighter and presses his hands to Hannibal’s neck to feel the sounds under his fingers as they drift through his ears. He presses his nose to Hannibal’s throat and tries to calm his breathing’s ineffectual in and outs with long draws of Hannibal’s scent. He gasps, this time in relief. Hannibal’s scent is like a cold washcloth against his sweaty forehead, drips into him like water would from the cloth.  
  
The pain fades – _for now_ – and, with Hannibal’s steady gait, he’s not jostled too much in their trek from the classroom to the parking lot. Hannibal puts him on his feet by the passenger door of his Bentley. Will leans heavily against the car as his partner opens the door and he feels boneless as he lets Hannibal ease him down and into the seat. With the loll of his head against the headrest, he catches sight of a car seat in the back, and a surreal swooping feeling swings back through him. This process they’ve discussed and planned for is _coming_. What’s consumed him body and soul is _happening._ He feels like throwing up.  
  
A voice drifts into his ear nearly whispering, “Stay with me, Will.”  
  
A kiss to the knuckles of his hands starts to right him again, swinging him back towards some sort of centeredness. He tries to pull himself back in from his unraveling, focuses on the familiar touch of lips to his skin.  
  
He grits his teeth against another pain as it grips him and, when it passes, he smooths a hand over the tight skin and muscle of his belly as he murmurs, “Where else would I go? This is the destination.”  
  
The lips on his hand pull away but not before he feels the twitch of a smile. When he opens his eyes, he sees the proof of it. “Not quite the destination, but very nearly. You’ll want to escape the pain, but I need you to stay with me as we clear the final hurdle.”  
  
Will nods and as another pain rolls through him, he raises his knees up to prop on the tip of his toes. “ _Drive_.”

  
\---  
  


Will trembles as Hannibal helps him out of his clothes. Will moans as Hannibal pulls back his shirt and whimpers as Hannibal slips his pants down his legs and past each of his feet, one at a time. Will braces his hands against Hannibal’s shoulders and the fabric is balled in Will’s grip. Will squeezes his hands and when Hannibal looks up, his expression has twisted into a grimace and Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.  
  
When Will is out of his clothes and into his hospital gown he looks so much smaller. He seems slight except for the prominent swell of his belly. His arms and legs seem thin and lithe in comparison to how the gown slopes and stretches around the curve.  
  
Hannibal knows he will miss the sight of Will swollen with their pup. He is, of course, glad that the pup is soon to be born. He can feel nothing but gratitude when he thinks of how they will become a family. Still, watching Will carry that pup has softened him – _softened them both_ – as it has represented the growth of such love and care. The rounding and growing of Will’s belly has been the clearest, most concrete, most undeniable symbol of their connection. With or without a bond bite, Will has been his and they have been united.  
  
But that symbol is truly and most importantly a _person_ and that person will be born _today_.  
  
Will eases himself on the flimsy hospital mattress, curls forward, his knees and arms bracketing his belly as it clenches. Hannibal can see when it happens as Will’s muscles all go rigid and his shoulders crowd higher around his ears. He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls Will to him, tucking him against his body with a gentle hand at the back of his neck. Hannibal pets down the back of Will’s sweat-soaked hair soothingly then curves his neck down to nose at his nape.  
  
Once that particular contraction has ended, Will lets himself be cajoled into laying back against the mattress and allows himself to be checked over. Their pup is deemed healthy and it is predicted that Will’s labor won’t last much longer. The doctor says Will has probably been in labor since sometime in the very early morning.  
  
Hannibal wonders if that’s what woke Will up and if that’s what made his instincts call out for his partner, his pup’s sire, to come to the nest. Hannibal draws his own deep breath in when Will does in order to squash down the lump in his throat at the thought that he’d left Will wanting in that _particular_ moment. If Hannibal had known that Will was in labor, their conversation and his own actions would have gone so much differently.   
  
But there’s no good place for regret. It wouldn’t do Will any good now. The apologies Will _wept_ against his neck when Hannibal came to pick him up were unneeded and a waste of energy that Will clearly needed to make the most of. The same might be said for Hannibal as well. Rehashing arguments would only pull them away from the present and what needed their attention most.  
  
When Will’s pain comes again all too quickly, it comes so intensely that he yelps before he can smother the sound. They’re standing now to help gravity encourage the pup further. Hannibal has stripped away his own jacket, vest, and tie. He holds Will even as Will’s knees threaten to buckle. Will opens his mouth and leans forward to press his teeth around the turn of Hannibal’s shoulder. It’s not enough to tear at the fabric, let alone reach flesh and blood. Will groans loud and wet as his mouth soaks Hannibal’s shirt in its grip. He moans as he pulls his mouth away and rubs his cheek on Hannibal’s arm.   
  
“No, no, no,” Will groans as his legs tremble harder until his teeth start to chatter as he shivers.  
  
“Why don’t we move somewhere else?” Hannibal suggests as he finds that Will’s legs are less and less able to hold him up.  
  
“I don’t—” Will starts and licks his dry lips. He heaves in another deep breath and it chatters between his teeth on the way out. “I don’t want to get in the bed.”  
  
“Alright,” he agrees as he kisses the top of Will’s head. “Let’s just kneel over here for a little while.”  
  
“Okay,” Will sighs and Hannibal can hear the exhaustion in the waver of his voice.  
  
He holds Will up as they move so that Will can lean against a stack of cushions. Various pillows, blankets, and cushions are left around the room for the sake of creating a pseudo-nest. Hannibal hadn’t had the time to grab any of their supplies or anything from their nest at home, so what the hospital provided would have to suffice.  
  
Will folds his arms against the back of the cushions and presses his face into his arms. He leans forward against the cushions until his belly presses against his thighs. He stays there groaning and flinching and collapsing a few more times before the doctors come back to check him and declare him ready to push. They don’t try to move Will – for which Hannibal is grateful – but the room becomes a frenzy as everything else is getting its last bit of set up. Hannibal can see how Will flinches away from the movement around him.   
  
“Will,” a nurse says as she kneels down to bring her face near his level and the doctor settles behind him. “It’s time to push, Will. Your pup is ready to come out and meet you.”  
  
Will gasps as the next contraction comes, but he doesn’t push. He arches his back and digs his forehead into his arms as he shakes his head _no_.  
  
“Will,” Hannibal soothes as he lays a hand at the nape of his neck. “Tell me, Will.”  
  
Will turns his face towards him and shows Hannibal the tears spilling anew down his face. “I’m scared,” he whispers. He drops his arm down to wrap tightly around his belly. His tongue and lips seem to fumble around the words in between gasps for air as he says, “The pup has been so _safe_ in here. Whatever happened in the outside world meant _nothing_ to them as long as they were tucked away inside me.”  
  
“You’ve done an incredible job keeping our pup safe and protected as they’ve grown,” Hannibal praises as he pets Will’s hair back and away from his face. He presses the backs of his fingers against Will’s bright pink cheek. “Our pup is lucky to have you as a mother.”  
  
Another pain rolls through Will and he shakes his head as he once again refuses to push. “It hurts,” Will chokes out. _“I hurt.”_  
  
“You’re hurting because of the contraction,” the doctor interjects. “You need to _push_.”  
  
Will doesn’t even hear it. “If the pup comes out,” Will gasps as soon as he can pull in enough breath to say it and more tears fall down his cheeks. “I’m just going to mess them up.”  
  
Hannibal’s heart clenches as he looks at his beautiful boy with his beautiful mind. Will knows the ways people are broken and why and how. He sees it, smells it, and _feels_ it more than anyone. Hannibal remembers those many months ago when Will said: _There are more ways for attachment to go wrong than go right._  
  
Hannibal kisses Will’s flushed cheek and hums as he feels it twitch. “You make mistakes and show the pup that mistakes can be overcome. You break things and show that they can be fixed,” he tells Will. “You give apologies you never got.”  
  
“ _Hannibal,_ ” Will cries out. His face contorts and goes taut as he holds in another sob and another push. “ _I can’t,”_ he insists as soon as he has his voice back. “I’m not _good enough_ yet. There’s so much I can’t give.”  
  
“You are _wonderful_ ,” he soothes and feels the truth of it pour out as what was caught in his chest opens up. “You are the only one who can give this pup life. Everything else has such little value in comparison to that.” He can see that a pain is building again and suspects Will is flinching away from the scent of annoyance that Hannibal assumes is coming off the staff in waves. He lays his hand on the back of Will’s head. “You need to push, my love.”  
  
Will finally nods and with the next pain, he squeezes his eyes closed and _pushes_. His fists clench tight and he rolls his hips as he bares down. His breath rushes out when the contraction ends and he’s granted a reprieve just for the moment. The words of praise from medical professionals go in one ear and out the other. All that matters is Will continues to push when he needs to and breathes when he needs to. Their pup comes closer and closer to being born until the announcement comes that the doctor can see their pup’s head.  
  
Will hisses through his teeth with a new kind of pain and his hands scramble against the edge of the cushion. Hannibal circles around to the front and takes hold of Will’s hands as their fingers interlace. He brings their faces close until their foreheads and noses nearly touch.  
  
Will gives out little huffs of breath and little staccato noises along with them. “I can’t do it without you,” he stutters out.  
  
“I can’t do it without _you_ ,” Hannibal reassures. “We’re doing this together. You’re not alone, Will. I’m right beside you.”  
  
Will gives a shaky nod of his head and gives another push. He crushes Hannibal’s fingers in his grip and his cheeks stain redder as he puts his _everything_ into pushing.  
  
“The head is born!” the doctor shouts and Will whimpers. “Do you want to feel your pup, Will?”  
  
“I—” Will says as he hesitates. His eyes search Hannibal’s face, open wide and showing both panic and awe in the wet shine.  
  
“You can do it,” he promises.  
  
His fingers tingle as Will releases them from his grasp and he reaches a shaky hand back and down between his legs.  
  
“I feel them,” Will says as he blinks his eyes in wonder. “I feel the pup. _Right there_.”  
  
“Just a little more, my love,” Hannibal answers with a smile. “A little more and we’ll have our pup.”  
  
Will nods and pushes again when another contraction comes. His pushes seem fueled by the _reality_ of their pup coming into the world. They’ve discussed it and imagined it. But even Will’s vivid imagination wouldn’t be able to fully account for the true experience.  
  
The pup’s arrival into the world is announced by Will’s gasp. It’s open mouth and with just the start of a smile at the end. The smile gets bigger and wider when the cry of a brand new life rings out in the room.   
  
Will leans forward to press their lips together and whispers, “I love you.”  
  
“I love you,” Hannibal whispers back.  
  
Many hands help to coordinate turning Will around enough to sit on the floor and receive a screaming, messy pup into his arms. He kisses the pup’s little head and then tips his head back to let out a shocked sigh into the air. His head lolls to the side with exhausted satisfaction. Hannibal rests his hand over Will’s against the pup’s back and feels how even with Will’s panting and the baby’s crying, they seem to breathe in unison. He kisses the top of Will’s head and tries to breathe along with them.  
  
After Will has had a chance to bask in the perfect reality of their pup in the world, Will lets them take the pup to clean and so that he himself can finish with the afterbirth and get cleaned up a bit. Will’s eyes follow the pup around the room. The staff knows instincts well enough to never risk taking the pup out of sight. It doesn’t matter how tired an Omega is, they will scratch and claw and _fight_ if there’s a risk of a pup being separated too soon.  
  
Once both pup and mother are taken care of, they end up settled together back in bed. Will strokes at the soft skin of his pup’s tiny hands. The pup’s fingers straighten and curl in response, so unused to being touched, so new to the outside world. Hannibal stands next to his partner and their pup. He watches as Will marvels at something so brand-new, so unbroken and he marvels at them both.  
  
Will presses a kiss to the pup’s forehead. As he breathes in, a small smile turns his lips and any tension he held falls away. “He smells like sweet milk warmed on the stove, a little honey in case it wasn’t already sweet enough, and—” Will pauses to scent again at their pup’s hair. “And something so perfectly and purely _alive_ , the essence of what it is to exist in the world.”  
  
He sits down next to Will on the bed and bends over to scent the pup as Will had. As Will described, he can smell the milk, the warmth, the sweetness, but beyond those three things, all he can smell is _Will_.  
  
“I want to name him Graham,” Will announces as he turns his fingers around the little band around the pup’s wrist.  
  
“I assumed as much,” Hannibal says with a nod. They never really discussed names out of an unspoken understanding that they would know the pup’s name whenever they knew it. When Hannibal considered possibilities on his own, he always defaulted to believing Will would want his last name used.   
  
Will clears his throat and brushes his finger against the pup’s round, little cheek. “I want his _first name_ to be Graham.”  
  
He blinks at Will and feels genuine _surprise_ , the intensity of which Will has always held exclusive access to. Even rarer still is the feeling of _hope_ that blooms in him and makes his skin prickle, but not unpleasantly. “ _Will_ ,” he starts, but for once he doesn’t know what words should come next.  
  
“The name should get carried on somehow,” Will continues, his tone is a little mischievous but mostly fond. “I’ll take yours after we bond.”  
  
Hannibal feels like all of the blood drains from his body and is instantly replaced with something that burns warmer and brighter. It’s a dizzying experience but a pleasing one. It’s the shock to his system that comes from something so purely awe-inspiring – a perfect opposite to what’s terror-invoking.  
  
Hannibal places his hand to cradle the back of Will’s head with his fingers and brush his thumb against Will’s cheek. He leans down to kiss lips that are still pinkened from being bitten. He’s gentle with them, but true to Will’s nature, he shifts the pup in his arms so that one can reach one hand up and grab for his own hold at Hannibal’s cheek. Will pulls them together _harder_ and _stronger_. They kiss with desperate presses of their lips. The pull of breath through their noses brings with it their scents. Hannibal can smell his own, Will’s, and their pup’s – their _family_ together.  
  
“My _wonderful_ boy,” he says as he lies down in the bed with Will, aligning their bodies on the thin mattress and pulling Will and their pup into his arms. He can’t say he exactly knows what features to attribute to himself or to Will, but he knows the affection that radiates through him at the sight of the babe’s small nose, miniature eyelashes, and tiny ears. “My _loves_.”  
  
“I assume you’re okay with that,” Will says. He looks up from under his beautiful, long lashes with eyes that hold so much. The flush of his cheeks has faded slightly as he’s had the chance to catch his breath but his skin keeps a healthy, satisfied glow. He’s as radiant as Hannibal has long seen him as, maybe _more_.  
  
“If I saw you every day, forever, Will,” he vows. “I would remember this time.”  
  
“Wrung out and exhausted,” Will huffs with a soft smile.  
  
“ _Beautiful,_ ” Hannibal promises, feeling his heart soften and lacking any shame for it. So many people see him as harsh, rigid, and cold and they would be right, but he can feel none of it at this moment, right now. Everything about how Will looks speaks to the pain he’s endured and his strength. There’s nothing that could be more beautiful than that.   
  
“We’ll see if you continue to think so in a few weeks when we’re both completely run ragged,” Will muses as the pup snuffles in his sleep.   
  
Hannibal sets his hand over the folds of the blankets that wrap the pup – _Graham_ – so he’s kept safe and warm. “You know, Will,” Hannibal says as his smile tips in a teasing direction, “you worry too much.”  
  
Will laughs loud and his smile is huge and wide as he throws his head back and the laughter shakes through his chest. The pup scrunches up his face at being disturbed but Will keeps chuckling and Hannibal can’t help but joining in. When Graham blinks up at his parents, he can’t properly focus on their faces but Hannibal knows the pup can feel the joy and relief that comes out with their laughter. It fills him with warmth to know that’s one of the first things their pup knows of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's actually finished???
> 
> I've made this part of a series because I think I'm going to do one-shot epilogues or something? So far I'm thinking of:  
> \- the first few months with the pup and everything that's involved with that  
> \- the first heat/bonding  
> \- the first night out after bonding
> 
> I haven't fully decided yet what the structure would be like. I'd be happy to hear folks' thoughts about it, including if there's anything you'd like to see in a sort of epilogue! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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